Melting Point
by The Phantom
Summary: Pietro becomes trapped in superspeed. How can you save someone moving too fast to be seen? A story that explores how each character views Pietro as a twin, a brother, a son, an enemy. COMPLETE with EPILOGUE
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. A part of the plot is inspired by the Star Trek episode 'Wink of an Eye', but I've taken hardly anything. I'm just giving credit where it's due and jumping the gun before reviewers say this sounds familiar. 

Author's Notes: My second piece of posted X-Men work. I've written a lot more, but I only put up the best for the readers. Anyway, this chapter is more of a prologue, setting up 'my versions' of the characters, so to speak, which is fairly easy because they get little or no character exposition in the actual show. (grumble) So basically I'm laying out the most important relationship in this story. Please review and tell me what you think; I'm anxious to see how this is accepted. 

Melting Point

~

**melting point **The temperature at a which a specified solid substance becomes liquid

~

Boom. 

The thunder, rolling in cacophonies of sound across the heavens, gently shook the house as efficiently as if two great hands had seized the building and were testing it like a Christmas present, eager to discover what gifts lay hidden inside. 

Boom. 

Every crash, whether cracking and ear-piercing or merely a rumble that was more felt than heard vibrated every beam and board in the rusticated old structure to the very core, the tremors reaching down to the foundation itself while crawling up to the highest point in the attic. 

Boom. 

Joining the thunder in the duet that has haunted the nightmares of so many children was its' companion, the lightning. Rumbles shook the house while flashes of white fire illuminated it, throwing ragged shadows about like a jigsaw puzzle of darkness. 

Boom. 

At last, the lightning glanced upon a human form, tossing about a lithe silhouette that was sitting hunched at the kitchen table. Another flash, another view of the figure, who now turned his head to stare out the window. Lightning caught his eyes, and for the briefest moment, ice blue clashed in brilliancy with the stark white of the weather.  

Boom. 

Rain was lashing the windowpane with a ferocity that threatened to break it, the rippled patterns oddly reminiscent of blood running down a street gutter, as he had seen in so many cheap horror movies. Blood and rain, fighting a visual duel as the glass seemed to take on a garish red tint in his eyes. 

Boom.

"Boom."

The echo was muttered by he that sat there in the dark, snorted in defiance at the forces of nature with the same spirit that had given him rise to defy so many in his life. He repeated the word, chuckling low in his throat as the thunder appeared to hear and react, rumbling with such fury that the bloodied windowpane rattled in its' frame. 

BOOM. 

"BOOM!"

The last one erupted as more of a giddy shriek from him, and he guiltily slapped a hand over his mouth as he remembered the others he lived with who were trying to sleep. Eyes shifting around nervously, he was the picture of impish remorse for no more than a second, after which he was satisfied that his commotion had not roused his housemates. 

Boom. 

"Boom…"

He hissed back the challenge at the weather, sliding his head out from under the hand that remained suspended in the air for a moment before cupping at his mouth with the other for more emphasis on his whispers. He was trying not to make too much of a fuss, trying to let the others get some sleep for once. None of them slept well with a maniac in charge, and for once they were all in dreamland at the same time. Best not to disturb them. 

Boom. 

"Bang!"

Spinning in his chair and with both hands clasped before him, index fingers extended for the gun effect, he slyly changed the routine in a way the thunder couldn't. Pointing his weapon at the window of blood, he fired off several rounds into the night, giggling at the trump he had laid on his opponent. 

BOOM. 

"Boom!"

Thunder was upset at the change in events, and now shuddered through the house with more anger than before, rippling under the floorboards and clattering the teeth of he who sat at the kitchen table. Now it was his turn to be annoyed, and he barked his response out the window with more than a hint of anger. 

BOOM. 

"BOOM!"

Not one to be outdone, he now sprang up on the table and remained up there, his head thrown back to the ceiling in order to make more contact with this weather that dared to challenge him. The lighting snapped rapidly over the scene, freezing a thousand still images of defiance on the wall, preserved for an eternity of less than an instant before melting away into the darkness. 

BOOM. 

"BOOM!"

Feeling adventurous and particularly daring, the figure on the table vaulted off his perch and down the hall, bare feet scrabbling for footing for a split-second before it was found and he was racing towards the front entrance. Once at the front door, he slammed his hand on the knob and yanked it open with more gusto than if he'd been crossing the Rubicon. And yet there he paused. 

BOOM. __

_"Boom…"_

His robust and vigorous challenge died in his throat, drifting into a thin and reedy whisper that was snatched away by the stinging night air._ Blood. _The image of blood he'd seen dripping on the windowpane now surrounded him. It fell in hideous torrents, streaking the earth and filling the sky with a wet and sickly shine. All over… everywhere it was, invading every crack and cranny of privacy that existed. 

BOOM. 

There was still time to turn back. He stood in the doorway, as yet untainted by the rain that would wash over him if he dared venture beyond his roof. Could he dare? Would he step out into the flood? Did he dare… that sounded like… a challenge. 

BOOM.

"BOOM!"

Moment of hesitation over, he plunged into the storm with a shriek and a whoop, springing into the air and remaining suspended there for a moment before coming back to earth. As soon as his feet made contact with the slippery ground they slid out from under him and sent him skidding and careening across the slick grass, landing him painfully right on his back. The rain fell on his face, drenched his clothes, invaded his mouth… challenge met and defeated. 

BOOM.

"BOOM!"

Back on his feet, he once again fired his finger gun a thousand times into the sky, in some vain hope that his bullets of anger would pierce the clouds and show the stars. He hadn't seen the stars in years. Figures the one night he actually cared about looking up there it would be cloudy. But not tonight. Not if he could help it. 

BOOM. 

"BOOM!"

"WHAT are you DOING?"

Whirling, rain flying off his body, he stood frozen in a position of surprise and curiosity. She lingered in the doorway, watching him with a look of utter incomprehension. Looking him up and down she saw that he wore only a t-shirt and boxers. No shoes, no socks, no coat. As usual. 

BOOM. 

"Sometimes I wonder," she mused, leaning against the doorframe. "If you were born insane or if it just rubbed off on you."

"Well, if I was born insane, I think my twin would be too." He fired back. And then, almost as an afterthought, "Boom."

"Boom?"

Standing on the brink of the rain, she stared at him, experiencing for not the first time the sensation that this young man was a complete stranger to her. There was so little she knew about him, really. And yet deep inside she felt him, felt his heartbeat alongside hers as surely as if it were inside her chest as well. When he was sad, she had a nagging feeling of sorrow in the back of her mind. And when he was afraid… in the moments when he'd been in that van, falling off the cliff, she'd gotten so dizzy she couldn't stand anymore. A blind panic had surged through her, her head whirling like she was… falling. Falling like he was. 

BOOM. 

"BOOM!"

He laughed, jumping and arching his back, looking like some jungle cat or mythical creature of grace and speed. Again he paused in his mirth to stare at her inquisitively, and she stepped back. Those icy eyes had such a fierce intelligence, and yet this animal quality that spoke of instinct and reflexes. Now two points of blue fire were fixed directly on her, scoffing a challenge. 

"Come out here and get wet."

"What?"

"You heard me! Come on!"

And still she hesitated, though he pranced and cavorted like a puppy begging its' mother to join in the romp. Shaking enthusiastically from head to toe, he sent a spray of rainwater whizzing from his frame, splattering at her feet but not quite reaching her. His hair was slicked back in a glistening streak, giving him the appearance of a cat, and his cold eyes softened as he beckoned for her again.

BOOM. 

Smacking his hands on his hips, he tilted his head at her and snapped, 

"Are you just gonna stand there and take that?"

BOOM. 

"Boom." 

She answered the call of the weather timidly, her usual anger and drive suddenly looking very small standing next to the fury of the storm. Indeed, the wind gusted suddenly and violently, shoving him across the shining grass where he could not find a foothold. 

"That's the spirit! Show that weather what ya got!"

BOOM. 

"Boom!"

Again she cried out to the rumble, and this time with a bit more gusto. He was egging her on now, skipping around and cupping his hands to his mouth, imitating her in a high-pitched parody of a feminine falsetto. Clenching her teeth, she felt the familiar hatred and resentment towards him building… and evaporating. Who could hate him as he was now, an innocent boy rollicking in the rain and howling foolish challenges to the skies? He was not her enemy at this moment. At this moment, she suddenly realized that he was, indeed, her brother. 

BOOM. 

"BOOM!" 

"BOOM!"

They echoed the thunder simultaneously, and then both stared at each other for a moment before he cracked a wry grin. 

"So, you coming out in the rain or what?"

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

As usual, he had turned her own words on her. She met this impudence with silence, glowering at him in mock anger while he stood in a play on repentance in the rain, a simpering expression on his face. 

BOOM. 

"BOO-"

Her half-hearted answer to the weather was broken off abruptly when she suddenly saw that he was gone. The split-second of confusion vanished when she suddenly found herself out in the cold, the rain sluicing down the back of her nightshirt and into her pajama pants. And there he was before her again, laughing like a naughty little demon. 

BOOM. 

"BOOM!"

With that war cry she pounced towards him, hoping blindly to grab a hold of his shirt or something. But this was not to be, and he was behind her even as she stumbled and turned around. Again and again he circled her, leading her on with a confident smirk, until finally he stopped long enough that she may catch him at last. 

Boom. 

The thunder had died to gentle rumble as she knocked his feet out from under him and pinned him with her body, sitting astride his back while pressing her hands against his shoulders. For the briefest moment she mused on how thin he was, and then instantly reprimanded herself for sounding like a fool in her own thoughts. Instead she ground him into the slick earth and crowed her triumph. 

"Give up? Give up?"

"Never!"

He wriggled uselessly, his hands flailing back at her in the most awkward ways he could bend them, and still he couldn't reach her. Valiantly he pursued the struggle, until he was either too tired or too bored to continue. 

"Okay, I give."

Boom. 

Laughing and rolling off of him, she perched in the wet grass next to him even as he sat up, gasping for air through the breathless ecstasy that joy induces. They rested side-by-side, oblivious to the freezing rain and instead concentrating on regaining their usual stoic selves. 

"You know…" he said slowly. "You're a pretty good sister sometimes."

She stared at him, startled by this unexpected sentiment, and suddenly she felt very vulnerable. Not just awkward, vulnerable. Like she was in a trap, cornered at the back of a box, and the wolf was walking slowly towards her and licking its' chops, ready for the kill. Nowhere to run. In a panic, she leapt to her feet and strode nervously back towards the house. 

"Yeah…" 

She called absently over her shoulder, not quite sure what that meant but hoping it delayed him before he could say something else. Glancing back at him for a moment, she saw him still sitting there in the rain, his eyes wide and hurt. Instantly the eyes hardened back into ice, glancing away at anything but her as he echoed in a blunt voice,

"Yeah."

Boom. 

The moment was over, the moment was ruined. Defeated by the rain and by his icy response, she shuffled back into the house. But what has she been expecting? He was a dangerous mind to play with; a dangerous soul to get attached to. Going out in the rain had only been asking for a confrontation of some sort. And now she was cold, from the rain partially, but also in her heart. 

Damn him. 

Outside, the thunder rolled with its' majesty, and a young voice howled back in defiance. 

And within her, she still felt that steady beat of life. 

~


	2. A Frozen Kaleidoscope

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Thank you all so much for the reviews. I had no idea I would get so much positive feedback. This chapter took a while to write, because I was losing the electricity of the Prologue as I had to expand the dialogue. I decided that in scenes where it's only Pietro and Wanda, that's when it'll kick into a higher gear. Anyway, thanks for reading, I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. 

~

Sunlight shafted through her window with such ferocity, she wondered if it had been hired specifically as a wake up call. It seemed to loop around various pieces of furniture, slipping across the floor and scrambling up the bed to deposit a lovely blinding glow of sheer white directly on her eyeballs. 

"Damn it all…" she muttered. 

Even squeezing her eyes shut didn't help. When she did that, an explosion of strange black dots leapt before her vision, swirling and ebbing the tighter she squeezed her lids. No, looked like despite all her efforts she would have to get out of bed and face the day. 

"Damn it all." She repeated, louder, for good measure. 

Sliding out of bed, she was hit by a shattering wave of cold that chased away any ounce of sleepiness that had been left in her. With a hissing gasp and widening eyes, she snatched her blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shivering frame. Fortunately, the fabric still held all the body heat that had accumulated there during the night, and it acted as an instant heater. 

Stalking over to the door and feeling a need to pin this infraction on someone, she threw it open and stuck her head out in the hall, caring little that she looked an absolute early morning fright. 

"Alright, which one of you bozos turned down the heat?" she barked. 

As usual, she was instantly answered when Todd came bouncing up the stairs, a happy expression on his face and eagerness bubbling out of him. 

"Morning, sweetums!" he chirped with far more energy than anyone was allowed to have in the morning. "It's wicked cold out this morning, so I suggest ya dress warmly! And we got the heater up as far as it'll go; the house just ain't keepin' it in!"

Eying him, she noticed that even he had taken his own advice and was wearing something different than usual, which was enough of a shocker. He wore a large red sweatshirt that was far too big, but apparently kept him warm, as he was chipper and enthusiastic. Wasn't he cold-blooded or something? She was too tired and cranky to care.

"Whatever."  She muttered, retreating into her room. 

"Want me to make ya some hot cocoa or sumthin'?"

His question went unheard as she shut the door. 

Still huddled in her blanket, she sat down stubbornly on the bed and pulled her legs into the haven of warmth. She was never ready to get up in the morning; for her, it would be perfectly fine if she could sleep till noon. Had she once been able to do that? 

She shook her head to clear it. She'd been so confused lately… it was like she wasn't herself. And where was her father? She had vague memories of him always being there… where was he now? Or maybe… no, that wasn't right either. 

"Damn." She hissed between clenched teeth. 

If there was one thing she didn't like, it was being helpless. And right now, she felt exactly that. She felt like her life had been turned upside down somehow, and she couldn't figure it out. Who was she, really? And where had her brother been in those idyllic years? She had no memories of him, and yet still… 

"Ah, screw it."

Trying to get herself away from such dangerous and tedious probing, she wandered over to her dresser and yanked out a faded pair of blue jeans and a thick black sweatshirt. Dress warmly. And while she would ordinarily never follow the advice of anyone, the weather suggested that it was only common sense to do so. 

~

Wandering down the stairs was always like stepping into another world. No matter how many times she descended that path, she would never get used it. For she was leaving her calm, organized, and sharply feminine bedroom to trespass into a foreign land… 

Downstairs was like a slap-in-the-face reminder that she was living in a house inhabited predominantly by those that were male and craved all things macho. While it wasn't the disaster area it had been when she first moved in, it still had a disconcerting sense of disorder and chaos, while occasional articles littered the floor. At the moment she could see a sock, a pizza box, a shirt, an empty bag of some kind… various things lost by the various people she lived with. 

Todd was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, and he sprang into action the moment her feet touched the floor. 

"Take a look out the window!" he cried exuberantly, like a little kid on Christmas. "See what happened!"

Obediently, she wandered over to the dirty living room window and looked outside… her breath was stolen away. 

During the night, temperatures had dipped below freezing, leaving everything covered in a glistening casing of ice. Light ricocheted off the frigid surface, sending a dazzling kaleidoscope of shimmering brilliancy everywhere, as though thousands of stars had been captured and set in glass. 

"Wow…" she breathed. 

Immediately she thought of her brother, musing if he came in at all last night. Had he stayed out there and let the ice cover him, heedless as always of any danger that something as trivial as frostbite might inflict? 

An amusing image of him frozen like a Popsicle danced into her mind, and she smiled wryly, her eyes scanning the yard in the half-hope of spotting him out there completely encased in ice. 

It was not to be. Instead, she felt a light tag on the back of her head, and a rush of air behind her as a certain blur of speed raced around the room. 

"I expected you to be an ice cube by now." She grinned, turning around and flopping on the couch. 

Pausing in the middle of his run, he looked at her with an insulted expression on his face. 

"Moi? An ice cube? Never! Although…" He struck a ridiculous pose. "I am too cool."

"Lame pun, little brother."

"I believe you mean big brother."

"No way. I came first."

"Nice try, darling! You're only telling yourself that."

"Whatever."

With her dismissal of the argument, he threw himself down on the sofa next to her and sat twiddling his thumbs, mocking their split-second of inactivity. It was as if he needed to constantly be in motion, like he couldn't even sit still for one moment and say good morning to her… 

"Good morning, by the way." His voice said next to her.

Whirling on him, she stared open-mouthed. He threw up his hands defensively.   
  


"What? What'd I do?"

"Nothing." She said hastily. 

Raising an eyebrow, he leaned his face right up next to hers and made a huge show of studying her carefully, making 'hmm, hmm' noises in his throat. At last, he leaned back and nodded slowly, before blurting out, 

"You're lying!"

And then he was gone, zipping away before she could even blink. Again, she wanted to be so angry with him for being so difficult… but she couldn't.

Another wave of confusion assaulted her. Wasn't she supposed to be mad at him? Or was she not? What was happening to her? Leaning forward and resting her head in her hands, she was hardly aware of another person settling on the couch next to her. Somewhere inside she felt a niggling suspicion that her brother knew exactly was wrong with her…

And yet he had helped her so much. In her agony and bewilderment for the last few weeks, he had suddenly become the most familiar and rock-solid thing in her life. He'd always been there, even out of sight, and now that her mind was in turmoil she felt immensely comforted to have that feeling she had when she was hear him.

She'd never yet tried to explain it to him, but lately it was getting so overwhelming that she wondered it he felt it too. Like a second heartbeat, or like she could feel this heat or passion radiating off of him and enveloping her. But was it possible for two people to be linked like that? So that they could always feel each other and know what the other was thinking?

Once or twice she'd read about it, brushing it off as nonsense and exaggeration. But lately she wasn't so sure… was she? Confusion again. It was like running into a brick wall. 

"You okay?"

Startled and defensive, she whirled on whoever was sitting next to her. Todd shrank away instinctively, looking like he expected her to throw a hex bolt at him or something. But she would never do that… would she?

"I'm fine…" she waved his concern away absently. 

"Ya sure?" he persisted. "I'll talk to ya if ya want…"

He was like a puppy dog, she mused. Eager to please, and never getting the hint, sometimes. 

"I'm fine, Todd, fine." 

Perhaps she'd spoken too sharply. At his hurt expression, she added, 

"Thanks for asking."

The moment was on the verge of getting dangerously sappy, when a violent shudder ran through the whole house and threw both of them off the couch. Jumping to her feet indignantly, she stalked towards the kitchen and the source of the problem. 

Lance stood there, fuming, with something wet and slushy dripping down his back. He was scanning the kitchen for culprits, and spotted only Freddy sitting there playing solitaire with himself. Rattling the foundations again, he bellowed,

"Pietro!"

A silver head poked around the corner. 

"How'd you know it was me? I'm guilty until proven innocent!"

"Well, considering there's only one person in this house who's crazy, sadistic, and juvenile enough to bring a snowball indoors, the suspects were pretty limited." Lance said dryly, brushing the snow off his back and flicking the chilly particles back at their original owner. 

It was strange; a few weeks ago all the boys would have leapt on Pietro for such an outrage. But now, it was as though they had drifted back into their early state of brotherhood. He had… well, the only way to describe it was going soft. Ever since Wanda's mellow return from the ski resort, Pietro had mellowed out just as much, becoming the silly prankster he had once been in friendlier times now lost. 

The change had been noticed by all of the others, Wanda included. She noticed the hesitant smiles he sent her way when they shared a secret joke, and then the ecstasy when she returned the grin. Had he been angry because she was angry?

In a flash, Pietro was standing on the kitchen table again, trampling Freddy's card game and holding himself in a dramatic pose. 

"Yes! It was I! Defender of chaos! Protector of truth, beauty, freedom, and love!"

"I saw that movie." Todd contributed from the doorway. 

"What movie?" Wanda raised an eyebrow.

"Moulin Rrrrrrouge." Pietro answered, rolling the 'R' for effect.

"Never seen it." She admitted. 

"You never saw it?" Todd laughed. "Man, everybody saw that thing! But of course, I guess you were…"

His sentence trailed away and a guilty expression slid over his face, his eyes dropping to the floor and then glancing around the room for a few seconds, until he finally smiled and added thinly. 

"It was a good movie."

"MYYYYYY gift is MYYYYYY SONG!" Pietro belted from his perch on the table. "Musical. Very good, I thought."

"ROOOOOOOOOXANNE!" Lance countered from the floor. 

Spying a challenge, Pietro whirled on him and sent the cards he stood on flying everywhere, to Freddy's annoyance. 

"Because we can, can, can!"

"Voulez-vous couche avec moi?"

"There was a boy! A very strange enchanted boy!"

"Come what may!"

"Diamond's are a girls best friend!"

"Shut up!" 

At Wanda's outburst, both boys turned to look at her quizzically. Glaring at both of them, she tried to appear stern, instead of the amusement she felt at watching two teenage males singing 'Diamonds Are a Girls' Best Friend'. 

"I've never seen the movie, so A) you're really confusing me; B) you're making me feel left out; C) you might give away some plot point and then I would have to kill you."

"Why, Wanda!" Pietro clutched his chest in his most melodramatic fashion. "I never knew you felt so strongly!" Returning to a normal stance, he added, "You really should see it, though."

"It's got can-can girls, yo!" Todd laughed. 

Taking his cue, Pietro began prancing around the table and swishing an imaginary skirt, kicking his feet up in a bizarre imitation of a can-can girl. Freddy's attempts at reorganizing his game were by then hopelessly muddled under the white-haired boys' tramping feet. Finally, enraged, he went to grab the speedsters' legs. 

"PIETRO!" he roared. 

And then they were all shocked. 

Pietro vanished. 

~

She felt a chilling, numb sensation sweep through her, like a terror she had never experienced before. The terror escalated into a panic, a gnawing hysteria that spiraled to her mind and dizzied her so that she dropped to her knees. Blur… everything was a blur, a hazy and phantasmagoric apparition of fangs and jaws dripping with the saliva of madness. Eyes, shimmering eyes that were bleak with horror, glared at her from a thousand cavernous recesses. 

From a distance, she heard voices calling her brother's name… 

And then everything snapped back to reality. The subtle familiarities of the kitchen beckoned to her warmly, and the gentle appliances smiled at her from their cozy shelves.

But something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong, and this realization pumped through her veins like a powerful drug, the whole peaceful vision of domesticity sharpened and clarified by the knowledge that something… was… wrong… 

Piercing through the fog, she heard a voice, a thin and reedy whisper strangled by fear and panic…__

_'Help me…'_

The others were jolting in one unified wave of concern towards the living room behind her… turning slowly, trying to blink away the peculiarity that was shaking her senses… she saw what the others saw… her brother, reappearing in the blink of an eye… falling on his knees, clutching at his head… trembling like a reed in a hurricane. 

In one bound she was across the room, kneeling to be at his level and grabbing those thin shoulders lest he disappear from right under her nose. He_ was _shaking, shaking harder than she'd thought any person could. It was as if were a vibrating piece of machinery… but the description that suited him best was the image of a mountain climber that had become lost in a blizzard of monstrous proportions.    

His eyes were wide with animal panic, darting around the room, black pupils shrunken to pinpoints of fear teetering precariously on their icy backdrop. The whites were visible all around, reminding her of how he looked when he was on a sugar trip or running fast. But this was no game. 

Fingers clawed into her knees, and she saw his long hands digging into the carpet, opening and closing spasmodically on thin air, clutching at some imaginary hold. 

She whispered his name in an effort to get his attention. Nothing. So she shouted it, feeling her own terror building at this gibbering fool that was only moments ago her witty sibling. Shaking his shoulders, she finally got him to look at her. 

He opened his mouth to say something…

And only gibberish came out. 

Starting backwards, she gaped at him in horror as he continued his attempts to form words that came out in a string of babble. She listened carefully… he was talking at superspeed levels. 

"Calm down." She commanded in a low voice. 

Even as she said it, she didn't how she'd decided on that phrase. Ordinarily, she would have said 'slow down' or 'stop', but instead this… but its' soothing powers seemed to be working; the hysteria was fading from his eyes. Finally, he forced out, 

"Whyareyougoingsoslow?"

Whispering back her quavering response, she said softly, 

"I'm not."

A look of strained agony passed over his pale countenance, as he squinted his eyes at her in a look of utter incomprehension. Gripping his shoulders more firmly, she said calmly, 

"Calm down. Come back to us."

Again, the words appeared in her mouth like magic. This time, however, their soothing effect was lost as he pulled away, rising to unsteady feet and tottering towards the stairs, gradually getting slower and slower. The other boys parted in dead silence as he trudged through their ranks, finally going up the stairs and out of sight. 

Those that remained in the wake were as breathless as a tomb, their own heartbeats hammering in their ears and their brows set in curves of bewilderment. Finally, Todd's hushed voice broke the silence. 

"What just happened?"

And no one could answer.

~


	3. Rhapsody in Silver

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews and praise. I'm honored to be receiving such comments from you all. I hope this chapter does not disappoint. 

~

The heavy silence weighed on them like an actual, tangible presence, settling on their shoulders and dragging down on them, as though weights had been attached to all of their appendages. 

Unnerved and strained, Lance slid onto the couch, slumping there with an intense expression on his face. His eyes burned into the opposite wall, hands clenching and unclenching on his knees. 

The repose of the oldest infected all of them; Todd sank to the floor and sat with his legs crossed, and even Freddy lumbered to a seat in the deep easy chair. Only Wanda remained on her feet; she was driven by a restlessness she didn't quite understand. 

All gazes remained fixed on the deserted staircase. 

And yet no figure came drifting down the steps; no pale, smiling face reappeared telling them everything was all right. The stairway was empty as a graveyard, even the thin banister beginning to look eerily like some reaching, skeletal arm. 

The tension became unbearable. 

Snapping from her place, Wanda broke from the hushed ranks and marched up the stairs, vanishing around the corner at the top and out of view. 

~

Walking down the hallway, she felt her nerves kick into a higher gear. The closer she got to Pietro's room, the faster her heart began beating, until it was thundering in her chest like a runaway locomotive. His tension was ebbing through the door to her; she could feel it rolling towards her in thick waves. 

Seemingly undaunted by the storm, she nonetheless hesitated a moment with her hand resting on the doorknob, before giving it an authoritative twist and bursting into the room. 

Scrambling to untangle himself from the curled position he'd been in on his bed, Pietro twisted his head around to glare at her accusingly. 

"W-w-what have I always t-told you about kn-n-n-nocking?"

His glanced away from her, his eyes flitting about the room as the traitorous stutter became suddenly and painfully obvious. Instinctively, he drew his knees to his chest and locked his arms around them, in what Wanda had come to recognize as his defensive position. 

"I don't think I have to knock at a time like this." She said levelly. 

"A t-time like what."

Even with his careful and deliberate phrasing, his tongue tripped up again. He clamped his teeth down and rhythmically chewed on it, his gaze still avoiding hers.

"Pietro."

No response. Not about to be turned away so easily, she moved into the room and sat down on the end of the bed, moving slowly and giving him plenty of space, lest he bolt. She hated having a relationship like that; having to treat him like a panicky and brainless animal. 

"Stop biting your tongue." She muttered offhandedly. "It'll start bleeding."

He made no sound to acknowledge her, but his jaw obediently ceased its' steady gnawing. 

In no hurry to antagonize him, she allowed her gaze to take in the room she had seldom – no, never – visited. It was, not surprisingly, very neat and straight. A few movie posters were tacked up on the walls; Jaws, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and, interestingly enough, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The big shock was that there wasn't a mirror in the whole room. Not even over his dresser. 

And here she'd always thought of his as a bit vain… 

But then, she couldn't even remember her life accurately; how could she be trusted to form decent opinions of anybody? 

The same silence she had run from downstairs swooped down on them, and she shifted uncomfortably. He, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content to make her wait in an eternity of stillness. 

That was her first clue that something was really wrong. 

He wasn't moving. 

"Pietro." She snapped, a bit too sharply. 

His gaze remained unfocused and lost. Was he even breathing…?

Jumping to her feet, she spun around and was about to shake him again, when suddenly he lifted his head and stared at her, still unnaturally motionless. His eyes were sharper than she'd ever seen them; she felt like he was looking right through her. 

Not a word did he speak. 

"Wanna talk?" she offered lamely. 

The level stare remained fixed on her for an intolerable moment of tension. Finally, his eyes glanced away and released her. One thin hand absently patted the bed next to him in a mute request for her to be seated. 

Immediately, she complied, and settled next to him. Hard as it was, she waited for him to instigate conversation. After a long stretch of time, his whisper fractured the silence. 

"I don't know what happened. One second I was st-st-standing…"

At the stammer, he broke off the sentence and let it hang painfully on the air, before at last continuing. 

"…standing there, then I was…"

He gestured vaguely, his hand limply waving at the air, reminiscent of someone shooing away flies. Still he did not look at her. 

"I was… there, but… not really. You were all frozen… like you weren't moving or…"

Abruptly, the gesticulating hand was drawn back in with the rest of his heart, and he clutched his knees with more ferocity to his chest, breath coming harshly. 

"So… are you okay?" she probed cautiously. 

"W-what would you c-care?" he snarled darkly, muffled by the effect of burying his face in his arms. 

"I think I would care why my_ twin _has suddenly developed a speech impediment and the inability to look me in the eye…"

She put the emphasis on the word 'twin', as though it's clarity would remind him of the bond that was supposed to exist between them. In truth, the bond was there; she just didn't know if he felt it too. 

Her cold words pierced his fog, and he unfolded in a swift and snapping motion, whipping around and grabbing her upper arms with a surprising fierceness and strength, full force of his blazing eyes turned on her. 

"It was a different world! There were m-m-monsters and… and eyes watching me! And no one was there b-but me! Only m-m-me! And I was scared shitless! Is that what you wanted t-to hear? Is it?"

He shook her with more violence than he probably intended; still, it frightened her. Not the shaking, not even the fact that he had admitted his own fear for the first time she could ever remember. The scary part was…__

_She had seen it. _

Thinking back to the moment he vanished, she remembered the split-second of seeing those eyes, feeling that panic and terror… Even as he continued rambling in a tortured confession that was picking up speed, her world was only half-focused. 

"The eyes… it was like they were all w-watching me… waiting for m-me to… do something… thousands of eyes! Everywhere! Just these eyes and…"

"You forgot the fangs." She said flatly.

A sneer of horror and confusion creased his face, as turned to gape at her, the whites again visible circling his eyes. Panic was setting in… she had to calm him down… 

"How do you know…?"

The question was slow and agonized, his lips trembling as though he was about to scream or faint or do something terrible. She could feel his breath hitching in his chest, catching on a thousand ragged gasps that echoed in her mind and made her feel light-headed. 

"I don't know. I don't know what I said. Sit down." She said desperately. 

But he had seen through her ruse; the animal in danger will always smell or sense its' enemy, no matter how beautiful it may appear. In his eyes, she could see that she was suddenly the enemy, the predator, and a great quiver ran through his body as he tensed for flight. 

"Pietro, wait-"

A rush of air, a gust of wind… he was gone. The window behind her was open, and going over to close it she saw a path drilled into the ice below. 

Such was his character. Always the first to run from his problems… he'd grown up running, he'd been born with a restlessness in his heart and a cowardly streak that always drove him to a hasty retreat. Something lurched in her stomach, and a cracked whisper escaped her lips and flitted out the window into the cold. 

"You can't run forever…"

~

Downstairs, life was dormant and hung in a suspended world of glaring eyes and heavy breathing. Indeed, each intake of oxygen seemed to rattle the precarious state of silence, the quiet inhalation thundering like an avalanche on their ears, sense enhanced by adrenaline. 

And yet as time wore on and neither twin returned to them, the adrenaline began to slide back to a normal level, the calm eking back into the room and massaging away the tension. But although their bodies relaxed, their hearts remained constricted with fear and worry. 

Todd, again, was the first to speak and chase away the heavy fog of resignation. 

"So…"

"So…" Fred repeated.

Both turned their inquisitive eyes to Lance, Fred's gaze confused, Todd's pleading for the earth-shaker to explain everything away and tell him that everything was fine. Lance could do neither, and that frustrated him even more. He continued rhythmically kneading the couch. 

"Lance?"

The quavering voice of Todd reached him, and he turned a level and carefully blank stare on the younger boy. 

"What happened? Do you… do you think he's okay, man?"

Unable to keep his eyes locked with that begging and fearful gaze, Lance broke the contact and glanced around the room, trying to appear casual. 

"I'm… I'm sure it's nothing the Speed Demon can't handle. He's a tough guy… you know…"

His sentence trailed away weakly, and he refused to acknowledge it. Todd, however, heaved a thin sigh that spoke of a desire to believe that explanation, no matter how shabby it was. To believe that everything was all right. That's what he needed, and he accepted it gratefully. 

Minutes later, Lance found himself alone. He vaguely recalled hearing Todd and Fred speaking their respective excuses as they wandered out of the room, thankful to be released from the spell of tension. The dark-haired teen, however, was still firmly ensnared, and remained rooted to the spot. 

He remembered how much he had hated Pietro not that long ago… he could vividly recall the anger and hatred seething at that arrogant little bastard who had betrayed them so easily. He had seen Pietro lie, backstab, insult, and do every other horrible thing short of murder. 

And then everything changed… Wanda and Todd had gone off to the mountain resort, raging and uncertain, respectively. They had come back confused and happy, respectively. The entire time they'd been gone, however, Pietro had been bouncing off the walls. He'd been acting even more of a maniac than usual. Then suddenly, just a short time before the two returned, the speedster had suddenly gotten lethargic. Lance could still remember his shock at walking into the living room and seeing Pietro draped over the couch, eyes glazed and a sad smile tugging at his lips. 

Then Wanda came home. Pietro went berserk. He was acting… happy, of all things, for the first time Lance could remember in eons. Suddenly the whole house was faced with the formidable foe of an enthusiastic Pietro. And for some crazy reason, even Lance couldn't stay mad at him. 

Not only was he silver-haired, but also Pietro had the gift of the silver tongue. He could talk his way out of anything, and he could talk anyone into everything. And after the 'incident', the silver tongue had turned into a rollicking, witty, and_ familiar _presence. Always a clever snap or a sharp retort for everything… 

Todd had been the first to welcome him back. But then again, Todd had always been tragically co-dependent. Unable to form his own opinions, four or five days of the good old Pietro and Todd was liking him again. 

Lance had fallen for his charms next; he had been such good friends with Pietro before the Sentinel, it seemed only natural to welcome him back. It was as though Quicksilver was a separate personality and had taken over Pietro's loyal mind and made him do horrible things. A thin and ridiculous description of it, but accurate nonetheless. 

Strangely enough, Fred had been the last to give in. Fred was the sort of guy who took a while to form an opinion, but once he had it, it stuck. He had just finished reconstructing his opinion of Pietro when the turnaround happened, and so he remained against the speedster for quite some time. Even at this point he was still adjusting. 

Groaning bitterly, Lance flopped over onto his side on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Had it been such a short time since everything had been so simple? When it was just Lance, Pietro, Todd, and Fred; a pack of teenage boys who had nothing but each other and a load of attitude. Those had been the days… Days when money wasn't an issue and the X-Men were their only enemies. 

Gone. Shattered in one day of Sentinels, captures, battles, and betrayals. Things would never be the same again, and no amount of silver tongues could fix it, no matter how hard they tried. 

A mute and haunted Wanda appeared at the staircase, trudging into the room and melting into the armchair. After a strained silence, Lance summoned the energy to make his statement. 

"Pietro."

Sighing wearily, she murmured her response accompanied by a longing gaze out the window. 

"Running again."

~ 


	4. Living Room Revelations

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Yes, here comes another chapter for you all. Sorry to have keep you waiting; took a loooong vacation and thoroughly enjoyed myself at the beach. :D 

~ 

The day dragged on with all the speed of a dying snail. The wind had vanished from the sails of time, snatched away by the terrors of the afternoon, so that the minutes became hours and the hours became glimpses of infinity. Every beat of the second hand from the ragged old clock was the tolling of a bell. Whether it was a death knell or a prayer calling, none could be certain. 

Emptiness invaded the house, and reality lost its' meaning. Neither Lance nor Wanda could explain it; they were trapped in a vortex of fear and worry, unable to function without the reassurance that Pietro_ would _come back, that he_ would _be all right, and that everything_ would _return to normal. 

The reassurance wasn't coming. 

The silence became stagnant, dead, like the waters of some wretched bog, and the flies of impatience began buzzing restlessly over the muck. Lance cleared his throat, Wanda shifted restlessly… no sign of the speedster. 

At last, weary acceptance dawned on them, along with the realization that nothing would be happening any time soon. With this came that momentary relief, and relaxation oozed steadily into their pores, dripping from an IV into their hungry veins. 

"So…" Wanda said at last, arching her back and sitting up a little straighter. "How long have you known Pietro, anyway?"

Lance blinked calmly, half of him flabbergasted by the question and the other half grateful for it. 

"I dunno…" he began vaguely. "A year, maybe?"

"Maybe?" Wanda chuckled, her eyes out the window and not looking at him. 

"Yeah, well…" Lance fidgeted awkwardly, taking a deep breath before making the plunge into his confessions. "I had a rough life before I came to Bayville. I don't remember much of it… and I think I know why. I just kinda… blocked it, ya know?"

She nodded absently, half of her muttering darkly that yes, she knew what it was like to block bad memories, and the other half musing over what the heck he could possibly be talking about. The confusion assaulted her once more. Lance's rambling continued. 

"I just shut it out. I don't remember it at all, actually. But I remember coming here… to Bayville, to the Brotherhood house. I remember meeting everyone. Todd, of course, he's unforgettable, isn't he? He latched onto me right away… kind of like he needed that kind of older brother figure to hold onto. For a while, it was just him and me. The two of us… kind of tough, you know? Kind of lonely… two kids with rough pasts and lonely hearts, thrown together for one hell of a ride."

The wind outside picked up, and light snow began to fall. 

"Then came Fred. Man, he was like a rock. Real cold, real hard to talk to. He was hurting, we could both see it, and it just took some time to reach him. Todd got through to him in the end; the two sympathize with each other, ya know? It just clicked. Me, I look pretty normal and all of that. But they'll never look like regular people. That's why they have such great chemistry. Damned if I didn't see Todd riding on Freddy's back a few days ago. They're like… like…"

"The lion and the mouse." Wanda finished quietly. 

Lance gave her a vacant smile, amused by that image and struck by the sincerity of it. That worked for him. 

"And then came Pietro…" 

His voice trailed off to let the impact of that statement sink in. 'Then came Pietro' was just as shocking and earth-shaking as saying 'Then came World War Two'; both were events that forever changed the lives of those involved. 

"Man, that guy is a piece of work. I was watching TV, and the next thing I know, the remote is gone, there's a stranger sitting on the couch next to me, and he's surfing the channels at speeds I can't even comprehend. It was insane. Then he looks at me and says, 'What's with the hairdo? You look like a caveman.'"

Breaking off his narrative, he laughed shakily at his own amusing memories. Wanda smiled grimly as well; she could see her brother doing that entirely. It was his way. 

"So after this charming introduction," she smiled. "I assume you two fought a lot."

"Actually, no! And that's the weird part!" He laughed again. "We got along great! I guess… I guess I needed someone who was smart to talk to. I needed someone to make me laugh, someone to make me think… And man, no one is spared from the wit of Quicksilver. He used everyone as a joke, and everything had an irony. In a way… he taught me to laugh at myself, when I did something stupid or we lost a fight. He helped us…"

"But there was something wrong, wasn't there?" Wanda asked softly. 

"Something wrong… yeah, we all knew something was wrong. I thought he was bi-polar or some crazy mental problem, because that guy went on some serious mood swings! He plotted an entire intricate suicide aloud once, while we were all listening. I've never been so scared… He went on in this cold, mechanical voice about waiting till midnight and breaking something metal in half to use as a blade, and if that didn't work he would hang himself…"

"Oh damn."

Wanda's hoarse voice sliced through the conversation as she staggered forward out of her chair. Lurching to his feet, Lance leapt across the room and caught her sagging body in his arms, heaving her back into the chair and staring at her anxiously. She was shaking from head to foot, and her wide, wild eyes glanced furtively around the room. 

"Breaking the tray! I was going to break the tray! Bend it in half! And the sheets… hanged with the sheets from the bed… this was my plan, my plan, I remember now… but why? Why would I commit suicide? Damn it… that was my plan, I remember it all, the tray, the hanging… midnight! I know this! He knew it! He knew the plan!"

The horror of before spiraled back tenfold as this revelation shattered over their heads. It broke like a thunderclap, smashing down on them like waves crashing brutally upon the rocks of shore. 

But how…? Why? In all her confusion and searching, it had never occurred to her that she might have wanted to commit suicide. Had her life been that terrible? Had she blocked it out because of it? Was that why she couldn't remember? But no… that couldn't be… 

Suddenly and violently a series of images flashed into her mind…__

_The streets passed in a dizzying blur, and then gradually melted away into empty fields, encased in ice and cocooned in memories of summer, the brittle and dead ground waiting desperately for spring. _

_The horizon stretched into the universe and beyond, the hazy grey sky supplying an endless cascade of snow, the flakes forming an intricate lace in the air. _

_Always, always, the feeling of intense loneliness, an aching desire to open up and let the heart be read, but then the feeling of mistrust and betrayal. Longing and sorrow… agony and suffering… _

_The snow fell harder._

Gasping, Wanda snapped back to the reality of the living room, her heartbeat racing and her pulse thundering in her ears. 

"You okay…?" 

Lance's worried voice filled her thoughts, and she turned a distracted gaze on him. 

"Yeah… I'm fine. Just… trying to remember…"__

_Help me, please._

"Trying…"

Waving her hand, she stumbled to her feet and towards the stairs, her usual stoic neutrality in dreadful danger of slipping away, in danger of melting into tears or screaming at the agony of confusion. 

"I think I'll take a nap or something…" she choked out, dragging herself up the stairs. 

Down the hall she went, the walls closing in around her and her breath coming shorter and shorter. She came to the entrance of her room… and couldn't go in. No… not in there… a few more tottering steps and she was in Pietro's room… 

Falling on the bed… inhaling his smell and feeling his presence… it was like an instant sedative. Arms curling around the pillow, she felt something crinkle under it. Pulling out the mystery object, she saw that it was a photograph. 

A white-haired boy and a dark-haired girl, looking around four years old, smiled up at her, full of youthful innocence.  

Sleep claimed her… and she knew no more. 

~


	5. Crumbling Ice

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Another chapter, finally. Sorry for the sporadic updating; life is busy, busy, busy! But here I bring you another installment. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews. Blood Roses – Wow! I'm inspiring hypotheses! And a very good one, too. However, remember the episode 'Power Surge'? It's rather like that, except with Pietro. Inexplicable but natural. 

~

In the peculiar vortex of time that occurs during slumber, Wanda opened her eyes to discover that it was late in the afternoon. Outside, she could see the treetops glistening with diamonds on their branches, and not a bird was singing at all. Simply silence, the odd and muffled quiet that can only be achieved through cold weather. 

Still lying on the pillow, her hands brushed against the photo again, and this time she sat up and studied it carefully. 

The boy was Pietro all right. Small and impish, with frustratingly adorable blue eyes that held a sneaking undertone of intelligence, it was like looking at an exact replica of her brother in miniature. Except for one thing. The innocence. This boy was happy, perfectly happy, and knew no troubles. The eyes were full of hope and the ecstasy of youth, not the hardened ice of a bitter cynic. 

And the girl… 

"Can this be me…?" she breathed to the still air. 

For the girl, too, was ultimately happy, content with her brother at her side and a flower in her hand. Her dark eyes sparkled, and her black hair tumbled about her face in gentle waves of silk. 'What a lucky child', she mused darkly. 'Now why can't I remember all the fun parts of my life?' 

The two children were the pictures of idyllic ignorance. And apparently, ignorance_ is _bliss, as the kids in the photo weren't making any attempt to argue this point.

Flipping the photograph over, she saw printed in a careful hand, 'Pietro and Wanda', but it was followed by a lengthy inscription in her brothers' handwriting, leading the back to look like this:__

_ _

_PIETRO AND WANDA --- Happiness and Innocence, Youth and Vigor, Life and Love, Sun and Moon--- it all goes on in the madcap circle of metaphors and analogies. An essay on purity lost, hope broken, and dreams crushed. WHY? _

_ _

A tear formed and fell in her mind, though her face remained stoic. She shivered, only then realizing that the window was still open from Pietro's escape earlier. Wandering over with a half-hearted instinct, she closed it and returned to the warmth of the bed. Again she flopped down on the soothing comforts of the pillow, letting her hands stroke the back of it. 

A strange smell tickled her nose even as her fingers brushed something crusty. Instantly the pillow was flipped over, and she stared at its' back in confusion.

Blood.

But… blood? Why? And why on the pillow? Studying it more carefully, she saw that it was really only a little. Just the amount the might have come from a nosebleed. But who would get a nosebleed in the middle of the night?

"Curiouser and curiouser." She laughed bitterly, quoting 'Alice in Wonderland' in a supremely ironic situation. 

Vexed and irritated by the mysteries of the room, she carefully tucked the picture back into its' nest under the bloody pillow (another irony, certainly), turning her tracks down the stairs. 

~

The smell of Poptarts and frozen waffles reached her even before she entered the kitchen. Rounding into the cooking area, she saw Todd keeping a vigil by the toaster even as Fred dug in the fridge for some maple syrup. Spotting her, the Toad shot her a weary smile. 

"Hey there, sweetums."

He seemed to be using the pet name simply out of habit; his heart clearly wasn't in it, and she had a sinking feeling she knew why. 

"Pietro isn't back yet, is he?"

"No sign of him." Todd answered faintly. 

"Nothing but the wind." Fred completed the thought. 

Right on cue to share with their worries, Lance came wandering into the kitchen with a yawn, scratching his back in the attitude of one awoken from a long nap. He gave her lazy-eyed look and grinned. 

"So, the Sandman got you, too?" he drawled. 

"Never saw him coming." She chuckled. 

The oldest member of the group dragged himself to the cupboard and retrieved a box of cookies, raiding the fridge and securing a jug of milk, coming to a rest at the table. Fred's discarded solitaire game still provided decoration, untouched since a speedsters' feet had danced on it just that morning. 

Just that morning. Felt like years ago.

She was about to ask for one of the cookies, when without warning she suddenly fell to her knees. The sudden and awful sensation of sheer tiredness overwhelmed her, smothering her, as though she had been running for miles and miles. Right on cue, and even as Lance jumped to her side, the door slammed open. 

Pietro. 

He leaned against the doorway, his face haggard and his eyes haunted, a frozen image of agony for scarcely a moment. Then he was in the kitchen, clawing through the refrigerator and emerging with a super-sugared beverage in his hand. This he tore open and began guzzling fiercely. 

Wanda, in the meantime, had risen to her feet. She stood with the other boys, who had suddenly all moved to one end of the room. Four against one. A jury to determine the situation. And the trial was about to begin. 

"So…" Lance probed cautiously. "Where ya been?" 

"Running."

The short, curt response was spared to them between the last gulps of the drink, after which the bottle was tossed haphazardly to the side as the consumer searched for more energy. 

"Running, where, yo?" Todd cried. "We was scared sick! What's the matter with you?"

"Back off."

This time, the voice had an edge to it, a ferocity, and things began to be thrown from the fridge with increasing violence. 

"This is serious, Pietro." Lance was firm. "Something's wrong. You have to tell us."

"I owe you nothing!"

Now, anger. A jar flew out of the refrigerator and shattered on the wall, the tomato sauce splattering in grotesque patterns across the floor, a bloody wound in the side of their home. In the side of their family.

Frustrated by the lack of response, Lance took action. Seizing the slender boy by the scruff of his shirt, he slammed him back up against the wall and brought their faces inches apart. Pietro's hands flew up in automatic defense, but Lance simply stood there in mute anger. 

"Now tell me." He ground out, his voice thick with pleading. "Tell me so I can help."

"You gotta let me go, man…"

"Not until you tell me."

"Please… I can't wait…"

"Pietro, talk to me-"

"Lance! Stop!"

Pietro's outburst was practically a shriek as he tore in vain at the stronger hand that held him pinned. His breath was hiccupping and rapid, his eyes glazed and darting around. 

"Man, I gotta eat something right now… something, anything, damn it, I'm caving in…" 

Sweat was rolling off his brow and soaking through his shirt, giving his face a ghastly wet shine and his hands a slippery and useless grip. Even as he begged his knees buckled and he sagged in Lance's grasp, staggering forward against the larger teen. The rock tumbler caught and cradled him, suddenly terrified, even as Todd wailed in the background. 

"What's wrong with him?"

"It's his metabolism." Wanda said flatly, trying to disguise the panic seeping into her. "He must have used up everything he had out running, and the trip home zapped him dry."

"What do we do?" Fred whispered. 

Suddenly Wanda felt three sets of eyes lock on her in silent pleas, demanding that she step up and take control of this terrifying situation. She suddenly realized how a ship captain must feel when his vessel is caught in a hurricane. And yet she came forward and claimed the steering wheel. 

"We gotta wake him up first. Then we get some food in him."

Going to the pantry, she swiftly retrieved a warm bottle of Mountain Dew, unscrewing the cap as she knelt down next to her brother. His eyes were half-lidded and he seemed unconscious, head lolling and lips moving uselessly as he tried to communicate from beyond the point of utter exhaustion. She brought the caffeine source to his mouth and nudged it in, massaging his pale throat in hopes of making him swallow. 

The rundown kitchen took on all the tensions of a hospital emergency room. The same hushed silence crushed down on the atmosphere, as each of them waited in various stages of anxiety and terror. 

Pietro surged forward with a yelp, his eyes wide and glassy. 

"Where am I?"

~

One hour and half a cupboard later, Pietro was slumped at the kitchen table in brooding silence. Even after the scare he refused to divulge any information immediately, and the rest of them were forced to wait in agony as he fidgeted before them. The jury had been arranged again, and this time, the defendant was trapped. 

"Now, you talk." Lance said, firmly, even though it was the seventeenth time he'd said it. 

"Please, Pietro." Wanda interjected. "Why do you want to hide from us?"

A nervous and pained glance in their direction, but no vocal response. 

"Come on, yo," Todd whimpered. "This isn't funny. What's wrong with you, man?"

"Nothing's wrong." Pietro muttered. 

Breakthrough. 

"Then what happened?" Wanda tried in her gentlest tone. 

"I went running…"

Lance seemed on the verge of leaping from his seat in frustration; Wanda slapped a hand on his knee in warning. Pietro continued in a barely audible voice. 

"I guess… I just got a little carried away, you know? Didn't want to stop…"

"But you knew it could cause severe problems." Lance said coldly, trying unsuccessfully to hide the pain and confusion in his voice. 

"Nothing I can't handle." Pietro hissed defensively. 

Lance couldn't take it anymore. Pushing past Wanda's restraint, he sprang to his feet and towered over the speed demon.

"That's bullshit and you know it!" he bellowed. "You almost died right there in the kitchen! You could have passed out on some back road and slipped away right there! You think this is funny, man? A game? What about me, huh? What would I do if you died? What would I be? Nothing! Your life ain't just for you, pal, it's for me! Why are you doing this to me? Why are you doing this to me… AGH!"

Stomping the ground in agony and outrage, Lance slammed his fists against his face in efforts to restrain himself from clobbering the selfish bastard right then. Still, an angry shudder rippled through the house, and the others cowered at his outburst. 

All except Pietro. Pietro sat, his legs drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around his knees, obviously fighting to keep his hot tears in his eyes. Suddenly he exploded to his feet and screamed back in a raw voice,

"Stop yelling at me! Stop it! You think I like this? You think I like being scared? Let me tell you, I'm ten times as scared as you are, buddy! This isn't for my enjoyment! But I can lick this fine! I can take it! I'm not a weakling! Not matter_ what _my father says! I! Am! Not! A! Weakling! And that's all-"

His words tripped up and his head snapped forward as blood suddenly and inexplicably began gushing from his nose. 

~


	6. One Flew East, One Flew West

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: I realize that this chapter is shorter than the last ones. The next installment will be longer, I promise. In the meantime, however, please enjoy this offering. Thanks for all the great reviews!  

~  

Even as the crimson blood splattered all over the white tile floor, even as Todd and Lance surged forward in concern, even as Pietro jerked away from their aiding hands, Wanda could only stare at the morbid patterns on the floor. 

Never was there ever such a brilliant red as the red that is blood, she concluded grimly. It was redder than any tomato, cherry, or other organic substance. It was redder than a fire engine, redder than fire itself, redder than the richest sunset. No; blood is blood, and no red created by nature or man could ever rival it for depth or vibrancy. 

Even when it splashed her feet she didn't notice it. 

"Tip your head back, yo, it'll slow the bleeding…"

"Back off!"

"Come on man, don't just stand there, plug it up or something…"

"Don't you touch me!"

"It's goin' everywhere!"

"Pietro, pinch your nose and tip your head back…"

"I don't need your help!"

"Damn it, stop being such a stubborn asshole and DO IT!"

Tense silence fell on the scene as Pietro did as he was told. He stood there with his neck craned backwards and his nose firmly clamped between slender, bloodied fingers. The lower half of his face was streaky an ugly red, and his shirt was speckled with stains and blotched with the sticky liquid. 

The kitchen looked like the place of a murder. When Pietro had whipped his head around, blood had sprayed on the walls and into the air, landing on everybody else and leaving its' garish mark on their arms and shirts. Todd was rubbing furiously at his forearms, smudging the blood even in his frantic efforts to get it off. He stumbled off muttering something about getting to a sink. 

Even with his head thrown at an awkward angle, Pietro managed to keep an angry and accusing eye pinned on the rest of them. His breath whistled between clenched teeth, and his chest heaved up and down with each intake of air. The hand that wasn't pinched at his nose worked itself soundlessly, opening and closing a furious fist. 

"Damn it." Lance hissed darkly. 

Pietro found the time to flick his middle finger at him. Lance slapped the hand away violently, and the speedster jerked away at the rough smack. 

"I'll let go and it'll bleed again." He threatened icily. 

"I guess I'll go get a mop." Lance retorted.

"Sounds like a good idea." Fred said hastily. 

Grasping at the excuse to escape the bloody walls, the large boy slipped off into the halls without a backward glance. He would not return with a mop. He would not return to that room for a long time. 

"One flew east, one flew west…" Pietro sing-songed in a distant voice. 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Lance asked out of weary habit, leaning against one of the walls for support and getting blood on his shoulder. 

"Wouldn't you like to know." 

"And one flew over the cuckoo's nest."

Both of them jumped as Wanda's voice cut through the air. Lance turned an inquisitive eye on her; Pietro glanced away in what looked like shame. 

"It's a kids' rhyme." She explained.

"I thought it was a movie." Lance mused. 

"It's more than a movie." Pietro growled. "But you wouldn't know. You don't know anything. You never understand."

"Pietro, get a grip." Wanda commanded suddenly. 

It worked surprisingly well. His eyes took on a hurt look, and he pivoted so that his back was to them. He remained still as a statue, and his stoniness froze them both in their places as if by magic. Minutes later, though it seemed like hours, he lowered his head from its' painful position and sniffed cautiously. 

"It stopped." He tossed over his shoulder casually. 

He continued to snuffle noisily, the noise grating on their ears and turning their stomachs as dried blood was snorted and the speedster began to cough and hack as it went down his throat. Finally, he straightened and turn to face them. 

The blood had dried on his face in a hideous red mask. 

"I'm gonna go take a shower." He announced flatly. 

He kicked his leg up as though he was going to kick into superspeed and shoot from their sight, but he faltered and stumbled forward. Trying to gather up his dignity, he walked quickly from the room and swept lightly up the stairs. 

"Sometimes I hate that bastard."

Lance pounded a fist against the wall in sudden anger. Wanda remained silent, turning Pietro's words over and over in her head. The entirety of the old children's rhyme came back to her full force and played out in her mind with the voice of innocence lost. __

_Vintery, mintery, cutery, corn_

_Apple seed and apple thorn_

_Wire, briar, limber, lock_

_Three geese in a flock_

_One flew east, one flew west_

_And one flew over the cuckoo's nest_

She remembered suddenly and clearly an image of a white-haired four-year old hanging by his legs, upside down, from a tree branch. He was laughing at her, smiling in the sunshine of some buried memory. His youthful words reached her ears, echoing and distant. __

_"Okay, you be the one that goes east. No, you go west. Wait a minute… Well, you can pick. I'll be the one that flies over the cuckoo's nest."_

_"But Pietro-" A little girls' voice. "What if you fall into the cuckoo's nest?"_

_"I won't. If I was a geese, I would just fly out!"_

_"But what if you crashed in the cuckoo's nest and got stuck there?"_

_The smile faded from the little boys' face. Then he threw back his head and sang even louder,_

_"Three geese in a flock!_

_One flew east! One flew west!_

_And one flew over the cuckoo's nest!"_

Wanda brought a shaking hand to her forehead as the memory swept away into the mists of forgetfulness. The confusion was back again, and it wasn't because of her… 

"What are you trying to tell me, Pietro?" she whispered hoarsely. 

And the only response was a thin and terrified voice crying in the back of her mind. __

_Help me…_

~ 


	7. Through the Looking Glass

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: I apologize for the time between updates. You ask, I deliver; the next chapter was supposed to be more Wanda, but people wanted a Pietro's-Eye View. I give you this. Please enjoy. 

~ 

Slam. Lock. 

Only once the door was shut and he was shielded from probing eyes, when he was sealed away from an angry world, when he had a flimsy wooden partition separating him from reality, only then did Pietro allow himself to break down. 

He slid to the floor with his back pressed up against the bathroom door, arms splayed out along the wall as though he were bracing it, almost as if he anticipated Lance to follow him and barge in to continue his prying. Damn him for being concerned. 

Dropping his head backwards, he hardly noticed the crack as it made contact with the wood; his eyes half-lidded and rolled back in their sockets, his teeth chattering. He didn't know whether they chattered from cold- the air was suddenly frigid-, or from fear. 

Fear. 

Clenching his fists, he rolled up to his feet and stood panting. His eyes glanced upon his haggard reflection in the mirror. He glared at it, making eye contact with the figure in the looking glass and hating him for being a weakling. For almost buckling down in front of everybody. 

"I am not afraid."

The hiss was full of anger, but not confidence. Tension rippled through him, his teeth clenched, his muscles straining and taut until a vein stood out along his neck. Still, the image in the mirror looked only half-real; a phony, a poser, an imposter. 

"I'm not afraid!"

He punched at the mirror then, not breaking the glass but certainly bruising his knuckles. Jerking back with a yelp, he put the wounded hand to his mouth and sucked on it, startled by how much that had hurt. Glancing back at the mirror, he gave himself a weary smile. 

"You're also a terrible liar."

The Pietro in the mirror looked offended, and slapped a hand to his forehead melodramatically, feigning a swoon with such overdramatic style that Shakespeare would have been proud. 

Pietro laughed at him. 

"Yeah, I'm talking to you! You big fat liar."

Mirror-Pietro laughed right back and crossed his arms, rocking back and forth on his heels with a superior smirk.__

_'I know you are, but what am I?'_

"Shut up."__

_'You shut up!'_

"Yeah, well, you're ugly."__

_'You're stupid.'_

"You're slow."__

_'I am the rubber, you are the glue…'_

Pietro was pressed up against the mirror now, his breath fogging the glass as he laughed at that little fellow in there, arguing with the man in the looking glass in a playful game. He actually saw a separate being in there, an image of himself before the day of Sentinels, a carefree and manic teenager with nothing more to worry about than a bad hair day. 

"Don't you give me that shit, ya little weasel!"

It was all in fun; he meant offense to the boy in there. In fact, he liked him quite a bit, and really wished he would stick around for a while… __

_'What shit? I'm not giving any shit…'_

The figure purred like a cat, an innocent smile on his face as he batted his eyes furiously. 

"Hey, you're weird. But I like that."__

_'You just like me because I'm not coward.'_

Pietro blinked, the smile fading from his face as the person in the mirror suddenly looked very mean, his eyes glinting with a cruel edge as he advanced towards the glass.__

_'You want me to stay, don't you? You want me to stay because you like me more than yourself.'_

"No. Go away…"

Edging away from the mirror, Pietro stared in horror as the image of himself was right up against the glass, so close that his breath was creating a fine mist. __

_'Well, guess what, champ? I can't stay. And it's all your fault.'_

"What are you talking about?"

Pietro's voice trembled with terror, his back pressed against the wall. The figure turned and walked away slowly, revealing a dagger embedded in his back. __

_'Because… you killed me.'_

"I didn't…"__

_'Only one person could put that dagger there, buddy. You. You stabbed me in the back. Everybody liked me. Nobody likes you. Why'd you do that? Were you jealous?'_

"Go away… I didn't kill you…" __

_'But I'm not mad. Oh, no. You're going to have to pay for that. You're going to have to live with the guilt.'_

"Stop! Stop it!"__

_'Because you killed yourself.'_

The figure turned back and stared out of the glass, his eyes literally burning with white fire. __

_'So thanks… for nothing!'_

He raced towards the glass, lifting up in the air for a flying kick, one foot filling the whole mirror as it made contact and shattered…

Screaming, Pietro threw himself at the mirror. 

And froze. 

His own reflection stared back at him, gasping for air and with tears streaking his face. Lifting trembling hands to the smooth surface, he cautiously ran his fingertips along it. No one there. Only a sniveling, crying coward who couldn't even face himself. 

He about had a heart attack when someone pounded on the door. Clutching his chest and whirling around, he heard Lance's worried voice. 

"You okay in there? I heard a yell…"

"I'm fine! Leave me the hell alone, Alvers!"

"Whatever, Maximoff!"

Grateful for having someone to vent his rage on, he occupied his mind with anger for Lance as he ripped off his shirt and threw it in the corner. Another glance in the mirror revealed that he was covered in sweat. Muttering darkly, he turned on the shower and listened to the water running. Had to keep himself occupied… couldn't stop and think… 

Peeling off his shoes, socks, and jeans, he jumped into the shower and let out a hissing gasp as the hot water made contact with his body. It felt scalding; a wild look to the handle confirmed that it was at the line between hot and cold. It should be barely lukewarm… 

"Damn!" He yelped. 

The water was tearing into his skin. He switched the handle down to be at its' absolute coldest. Only then did it begin to feel tolerable. 

Great. Another thing freaking out in his body. What else could go wrong?

Slamming his hands against the wall, he let his head drop between his shoulders and hang there, watching the water swirl down the drain. For a moment, he fancied he could hear it crashing down through the pipes like a waterfall. 

Throwing his head back, he let the water splash over his face and run down his body. 

Wash me clean…

His shoulders were aching from tension. He tried rolling them backwards; that only hurt more. Rolling forwards… no better. Damn it all. 

He contented himself with standing under the refreshing water until he had lost track of the time. Just… standing there, feeling a need to be clean and to have all the sweat and blood of the day washed from him.

Stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist, he chanced one fleeting look into the mirror. The weakling he saw in there filled him shame. 

"That's not me…" he whispered to the empty room. "That's not me…"

He looked away, mourning the loss of the one he had killed. 

~


	8. Just a Toad on the Wall

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Yes, this chapter's been a long time coming. I went to Disneyworld for a week, and then I spent the last week recollecting my angst-y muse, who went on a hiatus while I frolicked in the Magic Kingdom. Anyway, in this chapter we get our very first chapter told from a first-person POV! Yay! And it's… Todd. Obviously. So here it is. Each character will probably get a first-person eventually, but not all at once. Be patient, dear readers! Thank you all so much for your compliments and encouragement. 

~

It won't come off. It won't come off. 

Shit, I feel like Lady Macbeth. 

I remember studying that play in school… I always felt the worst for Banquo. Ordered dead by his own best friend! Just because of some dumb prophecy! Tough shit, man. That Shakespeare could think up some pretty depressing stuff. 

Why won't this stuff come out? 

Barricaded into the first floor bathroom, the taps in the sink turned up to the hottest they can be, I'm scrubbing furiously at the blood on my arms. The water is scalding, and it hurts; my skin turns a vicious red. But I gotta get this offa me… 

Because the blood belongs to one of my best friends. 

Not that I've ever had many friends. I think I've had a grand total of… three. Three friends in my whole damn life. No, four. Vague memories of the young face I knew… we were both four years old, I think. 

Robert. 

Suddenly he comes back to me full force. I can vividly recall something I didn't even know existed until two seconds ago. I remember the one year we knew each other… games of Knights and Dragons, and mud fights, and playing in the sprinklers… 

He never saw that car coming. 

Poor Robert. 

That was the first time I was covered in the blood of my best friend. I was five years old._ Five. _And there was Robert with his head cracked open, the red stain spreading across the pavement. I can remember trying to wake him up. 

No wonder I block these things outta my head. 

Is it any surprise I turned into such a bastard? Just a sniveling, cowardly, useless bastard. 

There were no more Roberts after that. 

Now here I am covered in blood again. Only this time, I'm old enough to understand. Old enough to see that something is very, very wrong. I'm not some five-year old kid who wants his friend to wake up so we can go play Knights and Dragons. 

Not anymore. 

Not this time.

But what can I do? Is there anything I can do to help? No. Can I get you something? No. Do I have your permission to exist, sir? No. 

I guess I've always been an outsider. Sure, they put up with me. When I was a spineless loser, they donated a backbone. 

But when I was a heartless outcast, there were no donors available. 

That's what always happens. Organ donations are few and far between. Most people die while waiting for theirs. So me, I died. Because who could spare a heart for a slimy little rat? Not them, that's for sure. 

Not like any of them had any heart left to give. 

It's a hierarchy. Lance is the boss. Freddy is the muscle. Pietro is the brains. And me…? Where do I fit in? Am I the jigsaw piece that got mixed up with the wrong puzzle? The one that doesn't fit anywhere and eventually gets thrown away. 

Yeah, that works. 

I saw "The Godfather" once. Great movie. But there was always a character that left an impression on me. See, in the movie, there are three brothers. 

There's Sonny. He's the oldest. He's strong and honorable, and even though he loses his temper a lot, he still keeps his pride.  

There's Michael. He's the youngest. He's smart and clever, and even though he doesn't look like much, it's in his brains where his strength is. 

And then there's Fredo. He's the middle brother. And he does shit. The one chance in the movie he has to prove himself, and he screws up big time. He's a coward and a weakling, and everyone knows it. 

So I watched this movie once, twice, and a third time, and every viewing left me thinking the same thing. Lance is Sonny. He's our guts and our glory, and he won't go down without a fight. Pietro is Michael. He's our brains and our scheming, and while he doesn't look like much, his mind is beyond reckoning. 

Guess who that leaves me with. 

I always felt a kindred spirit with Fredo. Both of us get shoved into corners and discarded. And both of us know what it's like to be surrounded by big shots and geniuses, all the while knowing inside that you'll never measure up. 

Listen to me. I sound like a frickin' head case. Maybe I really have gone insane this time. I remember other times when I thought I'd lost my mind. It was fun; there was a sense of relief and power at the same time. But always, when push came to shove, I did something stupidly smart that saved my ass and proved I still had my brain in the right place. 

Now here I am, tearing my skin raw trying to get the blood off and comparing myself to some secondary character in a movie over thirty years old. 

Yup. Crazy. 

Why does nobody ever pay attention to me? 

As abruptly as this thought comes into my head, I stop scrubbing. I just let my hands rest on the edge of the sink, the steam rising and enshrouding the bathroom, the mirror, and me, just… thinking. 

What makes me so unnoticeable? 

Or am I just not worth anyone's attention?

I think I've been asking myself that question all my life. 

I remember the early days. When it was just me, Freddy, Lance, and Pietro, and we had nothing to do but be bad and skip school and do all sorts of normal teenage hoodlum stuff. 

Lance always liked to pick on the X-Men for no good reason. That was good enough for Freddy and me; we go along with whatever anyone tells us. So we bugged them for the morning, then we cut classes for the afternoon. Whoop-de-doo. 

But Pietro was always… distant, I guess. Like his mind was somewhere else. I suppose it was; how hard must it be to stay in the present when your brain is going a million miles an hour? How hard does he work just to stay with us? He was always acting like he had to prove himself to some invisible force…

Now I know why. 

Looking back on it now, it still doesn't make any sense. My greatest enemy and the person I looked up to the most… are practically one and the same. I think that hurt me even more than when Pietro turned his back on us that day. The very fact that he'd kept that secret for so long. 

Not that the backstabbing had been nothing. 

Ouch. That was cold. Just like Michael. Ice man. Didn't even bat an eye. Just spun on his heel and rocketed away like he didn't care about us anymore. 

Like he didn't care about me. 

And then he comes back, and he's an asshole. Soon as that French guy leaves, Pietro switches into a weirder gear. He was real twitchy and anxious all the time, and he was always trying too hard to be what he wasn't. To be who he was before. 

But that face of Pietro was dead and buried long ago. 

And now he's back. I don't know how, I don't know when, but he's back. He's normal again. It's such a relief I wanna cry. Seriously. Even though I'm a big tough man. And men don't cry. 

But I'm not a big tough man. I'm just Fredo, sitting on the curbside, screaming and crying like a baby over something I never could have prevented.

It hurts. 

Because as soon as Pietro comes back to us, he's leaving again. Harder and faster than before. And there's not a single thing I can do to stop him. He's breaking apart inside, like in those old sci-fi movies when the spaceship flies into a million pieces because of the strain on the warp engines. 

Now there's a disturbing mental image. 

Shuddering, I glance down at my hands. The blood is gone. I think it's been gone for a long time. But there's me, going all Lady Macbeth, scratching at the stain that wasn't there. 

So, huh. I guess I've really lost it. 

The mirror is all fogged up from the steam. I can't even see my reflection. So I turn off the hot water, lean forward, and draw a face in the fog. A smiling face. It's stupid, sure, but it's happy. That is one happy face. Sure. 

Then, I draw a sad face. That's the real face. No one smiles as hugely as that first guy. But I've seen plenty of living faces with bigger frowns than this. And even if their faces don't show it, I've seen people who are crying like little kids deep in their heart of hearts. 

Like Pietro. 

And there's me, kneeling on the bloodied pavement, trying to wake him up so we can go play Knights and Dragons… 

~


	9. Individual Degrees of Separation

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: I sincerely apologize for the lateness of this chapter. Life has been crazy. But here I am, with another chapter/offering. You reviews encourage me greatly and make me smile. Thank you all. 

And I know all of you want to see another first-person POV chapter, but I'd like to scatter them throughout the story. 

A slight note to the content of this chapter; this story is not going to turn into a romance. However, desperate times draw people towards each other. It is only a small facet of this tale. 

~

And so it was that the afternoon passed in the suspended, dragging sense of time that befalls those trapped in a nightmare. Only there was no waking up, and all of them had to suffer through the hours in their own individual way. 

Fred sat silently in the living room, the TV on but his eyes focused on something else, some far distant point. It was up and beyond, past the clouds, past the sun, and it was all his. If only he could get there… Nobody could see it. Not even him. But he could sure try. 

Todd climbed the tree in the backyard and sat up there, listening to the wind and feeling it tug at his sleeves and hair, beckoning him to just hop up and join it, take off into the sky like a bird. All he had to do was jump. And yet that tenacious, stubborn side that had kept him alive all these years kept him firmly rooted to the tree branch, too cowardly to take the final plunge. 

Lance went for a walk, watching the ice, watching the clouds building overhead and promising a nice snow for November. The birds flew overhead, sometimes in long, lazy swoops, but other times their wings pounding frantically as they zoomed towards the horizon, hardly in the line of his vision before they were gone again. And still other birds nestled desperately in the skeletal remains of the trees, drawing in on themselves against the bitter winds. 

The fact that he went for a walk was not unusual. 

But the fact that Wanda went with him was. 

They went side-by-side, silent as stone; both of them in their own worlds and thinking of their own separate things. And still in their weary silence, electricity sparked between them, the emotions of two people pushed past the limits of all reason. 

Only when their fingers brushed did they look at each other. 

And even then they went right back to how they were. Such was their way, ice, rock, two things cold and beyond reach. But with that touch, a bit of the ice was melted, a bit of the rock was chipped away, and so there was hope. 

Pietro spent the afternoon alone, past the reach of all aid, sealed in his room as though closing himself into a tomb fit for a pharaoh. The walls seemed to be closing in around him, his heart was thundering in his ears, and his senses were working at an alarming rate of sensitivity. He heard the cars driving along the big road three miles away, he could smell the food cooking in the diner six blocks down the street and around the corner. There was nothing he could do but crawl under the blankets of his bed and try to shut it all out, quivering every time a new noise assaulted him. 

But no matter how hard he tried to fall asleep, he felt strangely sharp and punctuated, and something inside told him he never needed to sleep again, that he could keep on running till it killed him. 

~

The sound of the birds singing had an odd, echoing effect on the cold, cold day. The birds flew over the house that hid Fred from the world. They flew past the window into Pietro's room, their song sending a thousand shattering vibrations in his eardrums. They flew over the big tree, unaware of the melancholy green eyes that traced their flight. And at last they flew past two figures wandering down an icy, forgotten road. 

Both Lance and Wanda were startled when the birds darted so close to them, scarcely three feet over their heads as they shot across the sky, into the sun as it sank lower towards the horizon. 

Lance turned a half-smile on his companion. 

"Those birds sure looked in a hurry."

"Going south for the winter?" Wanda mused. 

"They're heading west."

"Must be lost." She muttered. "Like us."

"We're not lost."

"I haven't seen a map or anything. How can you be so sure you're going the right way?"

"Life is an obstacle course, and it's up to you to find the way through it."

"What a philosophy. I know plenty of people who I wouldn't trust to find their way through a parking lot, let alone an obstacle course."

"But everyone finds their own way out."

"Yeah, take Pietro. He couldn't find a way out, so he's decided to throw himself off a cliff."

"Don't talk like that, Wanda."

"Oh, that's not the worst part. Get this: I'm tied to him, so guess who gets dragged over the edge with him?"

Lance abruptly stopped their walking and grabbed her by the shoulders, spinning her around so that her stormy, angry eyes were looking right into his tormented, exhausted ones. 

"Look," he said roughly. "No one is diving off any cliff while I'm around."

"Yeah, well, ever heard of a Kamikaze pilot? It's a wacky guy who just gets sick of living, but rather than commit suicide quietly and hang himself or something, he figures he might as well go out with a bang and blow himself to smithereens, taking as many with him in the process. Wanna know something? Pietro is one of those guys. He's gonna smash himself to pieces and no one can stop him. We all just happen to be tethered to the back of his plane." 

Voice harsh and dry, out of breath, she finished her tirade and simply stared at him, panting for air, her eyes blazing with defiance and yet aching for some sort of reassurance. 

On a sudden impulse that he'd never felt in his life, Lance swept her into his arms and embraced her fiercely, desperately, as though trying to hold onto her thin body so she wouldn't be blown away by some powerful wind. She threw her arms around his waist, clutching, holding onto someone, anyone who could stop this madness. Her face was buried in his shoulder as he rocked her back and forth, trying to think of something to say. 

"I won't let him die."

"It's too late for that…" There were tears in her voice.

"Then I won't let him take you down, too."

She hugged him harder, her voice cracking on fear. 

"I'm so scared… We have this connection, and I can feel what he feels… I sense him, I can touch his emotions… experience his pain… so what happens to me when… when… he dies…?"

"Nothing's going to happen to you. Not while I'm around."

Sniffling, she pulled back, still in his grip, but far back enough so she could look him in the eye. Her face was red from crying, but her eyes sparkled with sincerity. 

"Lance… you're the only person who's ever said anything like that to me. It means a lot. Thank you."

"Sure, no problem."

One of his large, rough hands came up and patted her face absently, wiping away a stray tear with an awkward smile. 

In fact, the whole moment was entirely awkward. The two jumped apart as though a spark had ignited at their feet, or some painful energy had zapped them both simultaneously, sending them stepping back a few steps each, leaving them a good four feet apart. 

Lance cleared his throat. Wanda stared intensely at the ground. And with that magical sense of relief that only young people have, they both burst into laughter at the same time, both grateful that that uncomfortable moment had passed. 

Sure, it had felt perfectly natural to feel Lance's arms wrapped around her back. 

And sure, she had fit in his embrace like she'd always belonged there. 

But neither of them would admit it, not even if they were tortured on the rack. 

"I suppose we should get back to the house."

"I suppose." 

So they went. 

~

Dinner was quiet. Todd came in from the yard, but he went straight to the living room and bypassed the kitchen all together. Freddy refused to leave his seat, and when Lance confronted him about it, he merely shrugged and said, "I'm not going in the kitchen. Not after today.", which in itself was completely unusual and unsettling coming from the Blob, but in this situation it seemed acceptable, if not sadly fitting. 

If Pietro was planting bombs, they were blowing up in just the right spot. He'd scared Freddy out of his beloved kitchen. 

The speedster himself had yet to show his face.

Eventually, they just ordered pizza and were waiting for it to arrive. After a lengthy debate over the virtues of anchovies (Todd), hamburger (Fred), pepperoni (Lance), and mushrooms (Wanda), they had decided to get two large cheese pizzas, preventing any arguments from springing up. 

"Jeopardy!" was on TV, so they watched it with mild interest, everyone making the occasional guess and smirking triumphantly when they were correct. 

It was just as they were heading into "Final Jeopardy!" that they all heard the soft clearing of someone's throat behind them. As one unit, their heads all turned to the doorway from the hall. 

Pietro stood there, looking absolutely, perfectly, blessedly normal. A huge grin was on his face, and he leaned with his arms crossed in the doorframe. 

"Hey, guys," he purred. "How's it going?"

And only Wanda could see that the smile was painted and false.

~


	10. Stand By Me

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Yes, late again. But as one of my reviewers delightfully pointed out, chapters are like gifts to the readers! And nothing is greater than the joy of giving. 

I knew some of you wouldn't like the Lance/Wanda, but rest assured! It is not going to be a very huge part of this story, in fact being only a tiny facet in the face of this diamond. But if I was going crazy and there was a second voice talking in the back of my head, I'd certainly look around for some guy's arms to fall into. But all you non-romance types, fear not. It shall only make brief appearances. ^_^

If anyone has seen X2 yet, I would like to put in a shameless plug for my X2 stories, most of them in an angsty style very similar to that of this story. 

That is all. 

~

For the briefest of moments, everything was suspended.

Then all at once, almost everyone in the room made to jump up and rush him. Todd, Fred, Lance; all off them shifted themselves forward and most likely would have barreled into him had they not been interrupted. 

"Sit down! All of you!"

Wanda's loudly barked order had all of them slamming their butts back to their seats as though they'd been yanked back by magnets. She herself crossed her arms and slumped in the big easy chair, scowling at the apparition of what seemed to be a perfectly normal Pietro standing in their doorway. 

She couldn't be fooled. 

"I believe you have something to say to us."

Her voice was like ice. They all saw him rock back on his heels, eyes rolling back as he scrambled desperately for something, anything, the words that would defuse the nuclear bomb that was their very own witch. 

Ironically, the TV began the "Jeopardy!" theme music, and Todd slapped a hand over his mouth to keep in his laughter. 

Finally, Pietro ventured a guess. 

"I'm sorry?" 

"Give the man a prize." Wanda said dryly. 

The smile that split Pietro's face was so painfully genuine that the three boys completely forgot that they'd ever been mad at him, and they only wanted to invite him in to watch TV with them and pretend that nothing had been wrong at all. 

But Wanda wasn't about to take it.

Rising from her seat like a queen, she walked swiftly out of the room and into the forbidden kitchen. While the boys expected Pietro to come join them, he did exactly the opposite. 

"Wanda, wait!"

He went after her. 

And none of them could find the courage to follow. 

~

"Wanda?"

She was sitting at the kitchen table, her arms crossed and resting on its' smooth surface, her face buried in the little shelter they made. 

He lingered in the doorway, uncertain as to how to approach her. 

"Wanda… I'm really sorry…"

"Liar."

"Pessimist."

"Cocky bastard."

"PMS-ing bitch."

Finally, she lifted her weary head from the table, giving him a smile that he desperately tried to figure out was real or sarcastic. 

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" she drawled. 

"Truce?"

"Truce."

She allowed her head to drop back onto her arms, which he took as his cue to move into the room, his hand brushing along between her shoulder blades. For a split-second, he thought he actually felt her heartbeat. But then it passed. 

"Look…" he said slowly. "I wish I could tell you what happened today, but I can't. Even I'm not sure what's happening to me, and you know that's what drives me crazy. Not knowing. It's like…"

"…being blind."

She did it again. She read right into his heart without even knowing it. 

Still with her head hiding in her arms, she felt an arm drape around her, felt his face nuzzling in the space where her neck met her shoulder, saw his other hand resting on the table next to hers. 

"What would I ever do without you?"

He planted a kiss on her ear, and even through his t-shirt she could feel that his body was burning up like over-heated car. But even while she could feel him in the physical sense, it was suddenly as though a floodgate opened between them.

A rush of emotion surrounded her, and she suddenly became so dizzy she didn't know which end was up. Sorrow, confusion, pain, loneliness, all assaulted her with swift and perfect accuracy, striking through every angry defense she'd ever set up against a cruel world, stabbing right through her and into her soul. 

He felt it too, felt that thrilling rush as a suddenly indescribable connection flashed between them, bringing with it all the emotions from the other link; anger, betrayal, hurt, despair, slipping right past every block he'd ever placed around himself, shining like a piercing beacon of light into his heart. 

When the wave passed, Pietro was on his knees before her, his forehead resting on her knee, both of them breathing heavily and uncertain of exactly what was happening. He was the first to speak, his words hissing between clenched teeth. 

"You're a part of me, Wanda. And I… I don't want to hurt you…."

"Pietro…"

She pulled away from, pulled herself physically away but also reeling in the line that had been cast to him across the mental divide, trying to shut off her end of the link. Spinning her chair back around, she drummed her fingers on the table and pretended not to hear him.

"Pietro." She said in her most business-like tone. "I don't what's happening, but I don't like it. I don't like being confused."_ I don't like having someone else reading me like a book. _

Folding her arms about herself, she suddenly realized that she felt cold, colder every time she tried to push him away. Had he suddenly become such an important part of her?

But no… he'd always been there. 

Thinking back to a dark and dismal past that still remains blurry and uncertain in her mind, she recalled that, even through all the unnamable despair, something had always kept her going. Some_one _had always kept her going, an irrepressible cheerful side, upbeat and eternally tenacious. 

Only now has she realized that it must have been Pietro racing circles in the back of her mind. 

His arms wrapped around her from behind, his voice the barest whisper next to her ear, full of more begging than she'd ever heard from him in their entire time together. 

"Wanda…" he sounded choking, feeble. "Please don't push me away… I need someone right now, I don't even know what's happening to me… I need you to be strong for me when I can't…"

Tears burned at the back of her eyes. Pietro had always been so aloof and unreachable, placing himself beyond any of his friend and beyond even her. Now he was suddenly so vulnerable, so broken and helpless. It made her want to slap him and make him go back to being tough and cool. 

Not like this. She couldn't stand seeing him like this.

Suddenly, his voice splintered into bitter laughter. 

"What is it?" she asked automatically. 

"Nothing, just… I always thought it was so sick and perverted when families would say that they loved each other. I was just like, 'Ew, yeah, right!' But now it's like, whoa…" He laughed again, but this time it was full of disbelief and awe. "It's like I've finally tapped into some mystical well of… love. And happiness. It's unreal. For the first time in my life, I can say it…."

"Say what, Pietro?"

"I love you, Wanda." 

And in that instant, there was no one in the world but them, and in that breathless instant, she knew she loved him too.

"I don't mean that in a perverted or sick way," He continued softly. "But an affection, a devotion that can't be measured by any words except that: love."

His fingers entwined with hers on the table, and he placed another kiss on top of her head, his other hand massaging her shoulder absently. 

"I wish I could have known you all these years. I wish I could have been there for you. But I need you to know something…"

Taking the end of her chair, he turned it around so that she was facing him, where he knelt before her once more, taking her hands in his. 

"I'm here for you now, Wanda." His voice cracked on emotion. "And I'll always be here for you. When you fall, I'll catch you. When you're lonely, I'll always be with you. I'll do anything you ask… just, don't leave me to face the world alone. I'm scared…"

Cupping his face in her hands, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead, felt his skin burning, felt the sweat beading there even as they relaxed in an air-conditioned kitchen. 

  
"I'm with you, Pietro."

She'd expected him to burst into tears, or have a breakdown, or something. But even in all the tension, in all the strain, he sprang to his feet and pumped his fist in a classic gesture of Quicksilver Victory. She laughed at him then, relieved that his old self wasn't quite gone yet. 

"Grow up, little brother."

"Ah, ah, ah!" he scolded. "I believe you mean BIG brother."

"No way!" she cried defiantly. "You're too short!"

"I'm only a half-inch shorter than you!" he shrieked. Then, smirking, "You must be abnormally tall."

"Midget."

"Giant!"

"Giantess." She corrected smugly. 

He glowered at her in mock fury, which she matched with equal gusto. Finally, he bowed gracefully and offered his hand for a shake of truce. She accepted it primly, and even as they shook, they both hissed simultaneously,

"Little brother."

"Little sister."

So perfectly was it whispered, as deftly pitched as though they had timed it and set their voices so that they matched, that they both started howling with laughter. 

The chiming of the doorbell shunted them into a guilty silence, eyes darting around like mischievous schoolchildren caught breaking the rules. 

Dinner was served.

He crooked his arm and offered it to her, and she rose and slipped her own through it. 

They marched out of the kitchen arm in arm. 

~


	11. Russian Roulette

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Hallo, mein lieblings! Many apologies for the long wait again; am currently in a production of Noel Coward's 'Blithe Spirit' (quite the funny play, that), and have been working my tail off to get all my lines memorized. A few notes to you all:

About the Legendary Bloody Nose Don't-Tip-Your-Head-Back bit – Believe it or not, I actually knew that before I even wrote the infamous medical error. I just went with the mainstream beliefs because I don't think Pietro, Wanda, Lance, or any of them have ever bothered to research which way you tip your head when you get a bloody nose. I did make sure Pietro hacked and coughed a bit due to the blood rushing down his throat. But thank you all for your keen eyes!

About the misuse of 'ironic' – Oopsie daisy, my bad. Next time I shall consult the dictionary. 

The next chapter will definitely be in the first person, from Pietro's point of view. Just a little teaser for you all. 

Thanks so much and enjoy the latest installment!

~

Arrival in the living room was greeted with unanimous enthusiasm. 

"Pietro!" Lance called. 

"How's it goin', yo?" Todd chirped. 

"Everything okay now?" Fred worried. 

"Hey, guys, guys," Pietro spread his hands in 'please be silent' gesture. "There's nothing the Quicksilver can't handle."

The boys crowed gleefully at this statement of authority and power, and Todd supplied a round of applause as Pietro plopped himself down victoriously in the big armchair, sideways so his legs hung over one of the arms. 

There was a moment of satisfied silence before Freddy suddenly lurched to his feet.

"Dude! The door! The pizza guy!"

Nobody had answered it yet. On cue, the doorbell rang again with a distinct air of impatience. 

Freddy swiped up the messy pile of one-dollar bills they had scraped together and hurried towards the door, desperately eager to sink his teeth into something hot and cheesy. The others, meanwhile, waited impatiently for their dinner. 

"Man, I'm ravenous." Pietro rubbed his stomach for emphasis. 

"Me too, yo, I ain't had nothin' to eat since…"

He drifted into meaningful silence, and the speedster suddenly became stiff and apprehensive, tilting his gaze up to the ceiling to avoid eye contact.

"Are you really okay, man?" Lance queried tentatively. 

Wanda winced inwardly. This was not what was going to work. An interrogation would only get Pietro whipped into a frenzy. But Lance's inquisitive and probing eyes were now firmly fixed on the silver-haired teen, and it was too late. 

"Come on, Pietro." He prompted. "What happened?"

"Watch it, Alvers." His voice was a dangerous hiss. 

"Watch what?" the rock-tumbler was just as sensitive and angry. "You better tell me, 'cause I'm not gonna sit in the dark, and if you think I'm just gonna let this pass—"

"Augh!" Pietro sprang to his feet defensively. "What is it with you? Can't leave well enough alone? Why can't you just accept the fact that it's over and you're never gonna learn any more?"

"I have a right to know—"

"I don't have to tell you anything—"

"This is bullshit, man—"

"You better watch it—"

In the span of three seconds, the peace and contentment of only minutes ago was shattered entirely, and as the argument escalated, so did their voices. In no time flat they were screaming at each other from across the room, shaking fists and firing threats. 

Meanwhile, in the front hallway, Fred gave the pizza guy a forced smile and a weak "Thanks, dude", before the nervous teenager bolted back to his delivery truck and away from the howling. 

Pietro and Lance circled the room like tigers about to clash in a huge battle, both still too proud to calm down and rationalize things. Lance was sick and tired of secrets being kept from him, and still smarting emotionally from the places in his emotional armor that had been opened by Wanda that afternoon. Pietro, in the meantime, felt strangely accelerated, and every demand from Lance made him dizzy with adrenaline until he just wanted to explode. 

"I can't take it anymore, Alvers—"

"You think I'm having a good time, Maximoff, you're dead wrong—"

"Stop pushing me around—"

"Just tell me what's the matter—"

In one swift leap, Pietro jumped clean over the old coffee table and shoved his face up less than an inch from Lance's, shrieking and jabbing his finger into the bigger teen's chest. 

"Shut the hell up Alvers! I don't have to tell you anything! Maybe I don't know what's happening! Maybe I don't want to accept that! But it doesn't mean that I have to tell you jack shit, because let me tell you my friend, you are nothing to me! You're just a shallow, posturing, macho, Neanderthal, and—"

He got no farther. 

The ringing sound of a slap plunged the room into horrified silence. 

Lance's hand remained suspended in the air, his mouth popped open in surprise at his own actions. 

Pietro cowered away, one hand covering his face protectively, his expression full of horror, shock, and fury.

"You hit me, you bastard." His voice was tremulous and quivering with rage. "You bastard. You actually hit me."

"Look, Pietro—" Lance began helplessly. 

"What the hell's wrong with you?" the speedster screeched, wounded. "You got a problem, man? TV violence taking over your brain?"

Lance lunged forward in an attempt to catch Pietro and hold him still for one moment, but the slender boy threw himself backwards with an agonized yelp, clearly terrified at being struck again. Hurt and ashamed of himself, Lance allowed his arms to drop to his sides in defeat. 

The crackling electricity that sparked across their burning eyes would have cooked the whole room, if Wanda had not stepped between them and broken their eye contact. 

She was furious with them both. Furious at Lance for losing his temper, for egging Pietro into conflict, for actually, physically lashing out. But also furious at Pietro for being so easily offended, for getting so frenzied so quickly, for using his silver tongue to injure and strike. 

"Stop it." She growled. "You're acting like two-year olds."

Pietro gave Lance a long, steady look, before nodding once with all the regality and royalty of a king declaring a truce, before he strode with purposeful slowness back to his armchair and sat with false easygoingness. 

Fred stood in the doorway, boxes in hand. He coughed nervously.  

"Uh, pizza, anyone?"

~

In ten minutes, Pietro had scarfed down four slices of pizza and was working on his fifth. Even Fred was only on his third, and the other three were only just finishing their first. Lance opened his mouth, but Wanda shot him a look that said, "If you bring it to Pietro's attention, you will die a slow and painful death". Needless to say, no words were spoken.

By the time the pizzas were finished, tempers had definitely cooled. They sprawled about the room while Lance surfed the channels; Todd perched in the armchair, Fred lounged on the floor, Pietro sat on one corner of the couch, Wanda next to him, her head on his shoulder. Lance sat on the on the opposite side of the sofa from them, blipping while not really watching. 

The movies they passed were met with lukewarm enthusiasm at best; 'Spider-Man' ("Seen it a million times," Todd whined), 'Life is Beautiful' ("Too depressing," Fred said solemnly), and even 'Ferris Beuller's Day Off' ("Hell no," Wanda snarled). 

At last, Pietro started forward and cried, "Wait!"

Lance stopped blipping, blinking in surprise at the movie they had stumbled upon. 

"The Deer Hunter". 

"What is this, yo?" Todd whispered softly. 

Onscreen, the characters of Michael and Nick were prisoners of war, desperate and terrified, teeth chattering as they frantically debated options of escape. 

"It's a war movie." Lance said authoritatively, though he had never really seen it. 

"No, it's not." Pietro was leaning towards the screen, his gaze intense. "It's not about war. It's about suffering."__

_"I can't do it, Mike, I can't…"_

_"You wanna stay down here and die?"_

"They're best friends." Pietro explained absently. "But they're trapped in the Vietnam War. They have nothing left… only each other… and they're just being torn apart. They can't take the stress."

Lance shifted as the description hit uncomfortably close to home. Pietro was too absorbed to notice, and only stared at the screen in awe and fearful anxiety of what was to come, as the film shifted into the nerve-wracking game of Russian roulette.

"What's goin' on?" Fred begged. 

"It's a game." Pietro explained with chilling calm. "You take the gun, and you put one bullet in it. Then you spin the chambers and slap it shut, so you don't know which one is loaded. After that, you take turns pointing it at your head and pulling the trigger, and hope to God you don't blow your own brains out."

"But why?" choked Todd nervously. 

"Who knows?"__

_"Oh God, I can't…"_

_"Ya gotta do it, Nicky, or they kill you. Just do it, Nick. I'm here for you."_

_"I can't do it… Michael…"_

_"There's an empty chamber in the gun. God, put an empty chamber in that gun…"_

The entire group jumped like they'd been electrified when the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Fred gasped and clutched his chest, while Todd was visibly shaking. __

_"Put three bullets in the gun! Three! One, two, three! Three bullets!"_

"Aw, shit…" Lance muttered, suffering right along with the characters. 

Wanda's mouth was dropped open in disgust. Not at the movie, even though she'd never seen it before. What chilled her to the bone was the look of absolute enjoyment on her brother's face, enjoyment as he rode the horrors and atrocities he was watching like a bucking bronco or a roller coaster, the sheer thrill he was getting by watching these people play a game with death. 

"Stop it!" she screamed at last, lunging forward and turning the TV off. "Stop it, all of you!"

Todd slumped in the armchair, exhausted just by that short viewing. Fred was wide-eyed and breathing hard, Lance was dazed and confused. Only Pietro met her gaze levelly. 

"This is horrible." She hissed. "You can't be watching this."_ You can't be enjoying this._

"Good idea." Lance agreed numbly.

Another long silence rested between them, while the wind whistled outside and caused the tree branches to tap menacingly at the upstairs windows. 

"It's late." Fred observed. "We should go to bed."

"Don't wanna." Todd pouted, snuggling back in the over-sized armchair. "I'm too comfy here."

"Then let's just stay here." Pietro suggested. 

Moments later, they had all fetched blankets and quilts from the bedrooms. 

Fred sprawled on the floor, all bundled up in his over-sized comforter, sound asleep instantly. 

The next to doze off was Todd, curled up in the armchair, all but disappearing under the heaps of blankets he had found for himself. 

Drifting to sleep next was Lance, slumped on one end of the sofa, and then Wanda, leaned against him.

But Pietro sat still, rigid, unable to sleep for what he somehow knew would be the rest of his life. 

Reflected in his icy eyes, the flickering, horrific images of "The Deer Hunter" flashed by.

~  


	12. Click, Click, Click

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: I'm glad all of you enjoyed the Russian roulette metaphors; it was very talked about. More if it in this chapter. And if you haven't seen "The Deer Hunter"…**__**

**__**

**_GO. NOW. RENT IT. _**

**__**

That's me, trying to brainwash all of you into watching a fabulous movie. The character of Michael is my idol. But I digress!

Saw the episode ' The HeX Factor' for the first time on Monday. I do a happy dance. In honor of this momentous occasion, a new chapter for you all, in the long-awaited Pietro POV. Enjoy. 

~  

Click. 

Empty chamber again. 

Take one down, pass it around, spin it in an insane merry-go-round of life and death, slap it shut, point it at your head, and say a prayer. 

Click. 

Empty chamber again. 

The story of my life. 

As "The Deer Hunter" flashes by, I suck it all in, absorbing it like a big, malevolent sponge. 

Suffering. 

Torment. 

Russian roulette.

I played Russian roulette once. Quite the eye-opening experience. 

It wasn't that long ago, now that I recall. In the hideout. After the Sentinel. 

That's how I keep track of time now… Before Sentinel, and After Sentinel. How appropriate that the first is B.S…

Because it was all wishful thinking. 

But back to the Russian roulette. 

Colossus and Gambit were on some sort of scouting mission, and Magneto was God-knows-where plotting God-knows-what. So that left me in the closest thing we had to a den, sprawled on the couch and throwing darts at the ceiling. 

Then John staggered into the room. 

He wasn't in uniform, and neither was I; these were the only times I had a chance to connect with him as another teenager. He's only nineteen. 

But then, I could instantly tell that he was high on something. His eyes were wild and his gait was wobbly, but he managed to stumble over to the card table. In his hand was a gun, a revolver, which he played with fondly. __

_"Howdy, Speedy." He giggles. _

_"Howdy, Matchstick."_

_"Just us in the house, then, eh?"_

_"Cozy, isn't it?" Please note the sarcasm. _

_"Ehhhhh…" Fiddling with the gun some more. "What do people do when they're alone in the house?"_

_"We could play a game! Oh, goody!" More sarcasm. _

_"Sounds like a brilliant idea, mate, bloody brilliant. I gots a great idear; roulette!"_

_"Sure, let's pack up for Vegas!" Cheerfully bitchy. _

_"Naw, not like that."_

_Suddenly, he pops open the chambers and spins it meaningfully. _

_Let the record show this is not my idea._

_"I'm game." _

_He's dangerously high, I'm dangerously suicidal; not a good combination. Give us a gun and you're only asking for trouble. _

_He goes first. Presses that gun to his temple and pulls the trigger like he hasn't a care in the world._

_Click. _

_Then me, digging the barrel into that tender spot and waiting for the end._

_Click. _

_The game wears on. Every time we hear that 'click', we pop it open and give it another spin before slamming it shut again. _

_Now, when he puts it up against his head, it slips a bit in the sweat that's rolling from his brow. His pupils have contracted to mere pinpricks, and I know he's secretly just as scared as I am. _

_Click._

_My turn. But this time, I forget to spin the chambers again… why did I forget? It would have taken me one second…_

_Up against my temple. _****

**BANG. **__

_The explosion rips into my eardrum, and the only thing I can hear is a high-pitched ringing. My eyes glaze over, my whole body jerks in the air instinctively, the searing burn of scalding gunpowder scorches the side of my face. _

_But the bullet is stopped with the tip barely touching me, branded into my flesh. _

Magneto saved my life, the bastard. It would have been over in a blaze of light, a cacophony of sound, John's scream mixing with my own before I plunged into darkness for all eternity. 

Instead, I ended up with an hour-long lecture, a private training (read: beating) session with the Boss, and a deaf ear for a week. The scar of the burn is still on my face; I can see it if I examine my reflection closely enough. 

Damn it, I can't take anymore. 

Switching the TV off in a savage movement, I lob the remote at the set and grimace when it smacks into the screen. Doesn't break anything. Good. 

Wouldn't want to ruin Mystique's precious little house. 

Damn her. Damn him, the son of a bitch who calls himself my father. 

I don't call him father anymore. Just Magneto. Because that's all he ever was to me. Never a father, never the treehouse-building, storytelling, fishing trip-taking, camping, hiking, football-playing man I needed. 

I_ needed. _

Doesn't he even realize what he's done to me? That_ bastard! _He made me what I am today. When I needed a guiding hand, I was whipped back into place. When I needed comforting arms, I was shoved into a corner. 

When I needed my twin more than anything else,_ he took her away. _

My best friend in the world, my soul mate, the only person in the entire universe that I could talk to without fear of getting slapped and silenced. __

_He took her away. _

But even worse?_ He made me watch.  _And then he explained it to me in that brainwashing voice, and convinced me that it was the only thing to do. 

Then, when I was nine, I came crawling to him on my hands and knees, screaming for mercy, begging for him to make it stop. 

There was a voice in my head. A voice that wasn't mine, but was angry and hateful and cruel. I thought it was Satan, or at least a demon of his, and I seriously feared for my young life. 

"Pietro!" he scolded harshly. "Control yourself! You can manage it! Just try, for God's sake!"

So I bit my lip until it bled, pushed my mind into a higher gear, and managed to quell the voice to a whisper. 

Nine years old. 

I overheard him on the phone with someone. He was talking about me. I could only catch snips of what he was saying.

"I feared that this would happen… his mutation… super-sensitive… the connection gets stronger with her anger… she'll bring him down yet… thinking of training him harder…"

And he trained me harder, all right. Pushed me past all my human limits, pushed me until every day was just an effort to keep from snapping in half like a dry twig. Ever see a picture of a horse that's just run a big race? They have foam slathered all over their sides. They're been running so hard and so fast they can't even swallow their own saliva. That's what I felt like. 

So here I am, seven years later, a complete wreck. 

In "Black Beauty", there's a horse called Ginger. A beautiful chestnut, strong, long-legged. She shows limitless potential; all they have to do it patiently train her until they unearth her best. But they race her before her time, push her past the limit before teaching her what to do. It utterly destroys her. 

Is that all I was to my father? A racehorse, not yet in my prime but pushed to be there, whipped and spurred until I cross the finish line? Then my knees buckled and my heart gave out. 

I'm just lucky he didn't shoot me in the head. 

That's why he sent me back here. Not to train them. No one can train them. Just to get rid of me. He knew his prime racer was useless, so he cast him off like so much flotsam and jetsam. 

He didn't know that he made me the happiest man alive that day. 

He'd just released that ruined old horse into a bright green pasture. 

I can rest at last. 

It's so quiet here. 

I watch them sleeping. Todd, bless his heart, only his crazy brown hair sticking up from under the blankets he's piled on himself. Maybe he is cold-blooded. Fred, gentle as a lamb and slumbering like a baby, his head pillowed on his arms. Even Lance looks almost decent when he sleeps, all the worry and frustration wiped from his face to be replaced by peace. 

And Wanda. 

My Wanda. 

So happy she looks now! Dozing contentedly on Lance's shoulder, her fingers closed instinctively on the edge of her quilt, like someone's going to take it away from her. 

No one's going to take away anything. Not while I'm here. 

Wait a minute—LANCE'S shoulder???

Like a slap in the face, I suddenly become aware of it all. Him. Her. Hormones. Damn. 

Calm down. They can't be that bad for each other. Two stubborn hardheads who share the same philosophy: my way or the high way. They're bound to soften each other up, like "The Taming of the Shrew" or something. 

Still. Jealous jealous jealous. 

Slowly, carefully, I slip my arm around her shoulders. She murmurs in her sleep. With equal caution, I shift her weight back in my direction, until her body slumps against mine and her head rests gently on my chest. 

Is it just me, or did she nestle her face into my shirt?

My hands find an automatic rhythm massaging her shoulders. 

Hello again, Wanda. 

You slept like this once before, though I know you don't remember it. We stayed up late watching the old "Frankenstein". I think we must have been five years old. You were so scared, then. Didn't want to go upstairs, didn't want to be alone in your room with that big empty closet. 

So I took you into my room, and we snuggled under the covers together. You fell asleep in my arms, Wanda, with your downy soft head resting on my thin chest, your breathing a deep and peaceful rhythm. 

"Don't let the monster get me, Pie…" you yawned. __

_"I won't. I promise."_

And here you are, in my arms again at last. 

This time, there are bigger and badder monsters chasing you. Nightmares and phantoms from a past that haunts you. 

But I got bigger too, Wanda. 

I can still protect you. 

Your hair is still as soft as down. Your breathing can still calm my racing heart. 

He took you away from me, Wanda. Up till then, I had trusted him implicitly, would have agreed to fling myself into a nuclear melting pot for him. But when he violated me, when he crossed the line…

He took away the only thing I ever_ loved. _

What kind of father would do that? Father? I saw a Father's Day card in a Hallmark once; it said "Happy Father's Day, Old Block! Love, Chip". I wanted to scream. 

I ended up buying it. 

Then I burned it. 

You told me once that I was just like him, Wanda. You broke my heart. You_ broke _my_ heart. _You said he was a monster, and I was no different. God, Wanda, I thought I was going to die right at your feet. 

I can only hope you'll change that opinion one day. 

That's what this horse is running for. 

Because a racehorse only needs the right help to become great. Just look at Seabiscuit. 

Fred and Todd will be the keepers. Fred's the one that always makes sure I eat enough, even though he probably doesn't realize it. And Todd thought I was asleep all those nights ago, last December, when the weather was freezing and he came in and tossed an extra blanket over me. 

Lance can be the trainer. He'll keep me in line, he'll tell me when to shut up and when to stop running. He'll give me a slap (I really needed that, actually), then he'll give me one of those bear hugs and tell me it's okay. 

And Wanda, you be the jockey. Ride down my stubborn personality, like a bucking bronco, till you finally break it and teach me to have some humility and patience. Don't be afraid to use the riding crop; even the best horses need a little encouragement sometimes. 

With all of you helping me, it could happen. I'm too proud to ask, but you know I need it. Whip me into shape, shut me up, sit me down, teach me to be good. I'll listen. 

Maybe this horse can run again. 

Maybe this time I'll come across the finish line in glory and pride. 

And for the first time in my life, I'll find the roses of victory around my neck. 

Race for the dream. 

And keep hoping for empty chambers in the gun.

Click.

~ 


	13. Gone

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: This chapter doesn't have much action, but a lot happens, savvy? Hugs and kisses to everyone who reviewed. You guys rock. You know I had a demo version of this story written up in about six chapters, but then I thought, hey, let's do some more emotional exploring! Now it's twice as long, and we haven't even gotten to the real action! But now I give you… *dun dun dun!* The Catalyst! 

_~ Wanda ~_

_She dreams that she is safe. _

_At first, she is running through a dark forest, crying, uncertain, and completely lost. Her bare feet crunch in the snow. _

_She hears the sound of approach, and turns around to see white wolf. At first she is terrified, but she sees in its' eyes that it wants to help. _

_It comes towards her, and without a pause lies down in the snow before her. Rolling onto its' back, it exposes its' soft belly fur. Soft and warm. _

_So she lies down beside it, snuggling into the heat and falling asleep listening to its' heartbeat._

_And she is safe._

_~ Fred ~_

_He dreams that he is alone. _

_At first, he is standing with a companion. A thin, wraithlike figure stands at his side. It has no form, but burning eyes that have no color at all. They are on a long and empty road._

_There is the sound of a gunshot, and a flock of birds leap into terrified flight and scatter away, screaming nervously. _

_Then the figure is gone, drifting away on a strong wind. _

_And he is alone. _

_~ Todd ~_

_He dreams that he is lost. _

_At first, he is walking down a wooded path. He knows the path, and he is not afraid, because there is a guide with him. The guide wears a mask, which he does not question. He only follows him deeper and deeper into the woods. _

_But then the path grows dark, and the guide removes his mask to show that he is a skeleton, and his face is merely a skull. _

_Then the guide takes off running at an incredible speed, leaving him on the deserted road. _

_And he is lost._

_~ Lance ~_

_He dreams that he is abandoned. _

_At first, he is standing on a boat with four people. Three of them he loves, but the fourth he loves most of all, his dearest friend. The ship lists on the sea, and all is peaceful. _

_But the fourth has a bomb strapped to his chest, and the countdown clock is ticking away. He tries to stop his friend, but the clock hits zero. _

_The one he loves is blown away. Blood is on the deck, and a hole has been blasted into the boat that cannot be repaired. They are trapped on a sinking ship. _

_And he is abandoned._

~

When the sun finally began to beat incessantly on her eyelids, Wanda was rested. After a long and frustrating day yesterday, last night had given her the most peaceful and relaxed sleep she could remember in a long time. No nightmares, no flashing visions of a past she couldn't remember… just an absolute quiet. It was as if someone had been watching over her, guarding her dreams all night long. 

Turning her head to the side, she saw it was true. 

Her ear was pressed against something warm and reassuring, her face was rubbing against the fabric of a t-shirt, a heartbeat thumped lightly under her, and she was looking right into a pair of brilliant blue eyes. 

"Morning, sis." She heard a soft voice say. 

Sleepy and disoriented, it took her a long moment to figure out who it was. The messy white hair clued her in, and she gave an exaggerated yawn and snuggled into her brother's chest. 

"Morning, Pie."

She felt his breath catch, and glanced up at him nervously. 

"What's a'matter?" she asked hastily. "Did I say something wrong?" 

"You haven't called me that in forever."

Oh. That's right. She hadn't, had she? 

"Well then, I guess it's about time I said it again."

He chuckled, jostling her up and down gently with the movement. Yawning again, she tugged the quilt tighter around her frame.

"S'cold…" she muttered.

"It's the middle of December." He agreed. 

"Cheeky." She shoved him half-heartedly. 

"Augh!" Todd sat bolt upright. "I'm awake! I'm awake!"

His hands fumbled to shut off an imaginary alarm clock, and the pair on the couch laughed outright at his antics. As he gradually came back to himself, he scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes and blinked repeatedly. 

"Whoa, man," he arched his back in a stretch. "I do not recommend sleeping in a position like that."

Unfolding himself from his cramped nest in the armchair, he flopped out on the carpet and poked Fred in the face repeatedly. He narrowly avoided the huge, sleepy fist aimed at him. 

"Five more minutes!" the Blob roared. 

"Sure thing, Freddy." Todd fetched his quilts and made himself a new nest in the middle of the floor. 

Wanda herself was about to doze off again, but she noticed something that arrested her attention. Lance kicked once, twice in his sleep, until his body was tipped precariously close to the edge of the couch. One foot slipped off and hit the floor. The rest of him was sliding to a similar fate. 

"Think we should wake him up?" she asked no one in particular. 

"Nope." She could hear the evil grin in Pietro's voice. 

The twins' eyes were locked on him, as Lance slowly… slowly began to roll over…

Whump. 

He hit the floor and was awake with a jolt, hands swatting at an invisible antagonist as he opened his eyes. It finally occurred to him that he may have fallen by himself and not been pushed, and he glanced around to make sure no one had seen him, groaning loudly when he saw the witnesses. 

"I give it a 7.5." Pietro said solemnly. "Excellent form, but the landing was a bit sloppy."

"Ha, ha, ha." Lance grumbled, getting to his feet. "Remind me to laugh after I've had some coffee."

"Sounds good to me." The speedster yawned. "I didn't sleep a wink last night."

Wanda made a mental note to ask him about that later, but in the meantime, a hot cup of coffee sounded too good to be true. 

~

After lingering at the door to the kitchen for a nervous moment, Lance forged bravely ahead and set up the coffee, starting up the steady drip of morning refreshment. Pietro came up behind him and watching the drip with intense interest, before finally making a morbid remark. 

"Looks like the drip of an IV."

"Sure, man," Lance agreed uneasily. 

"Sorry." The response was hasty and genuinely apologetic. "I'm really tired, and I tend to be kind of creepy when I'm really tired."

"You're always kind of creepy." He poked fun gently, cautiously. 

He won a laugh, and his heart soared. Pietro seemed to be entirely in control this morning, friendly, easygoing, relaxed. Just a bit bloodshot in the eyes, but they all were. 

"So…" the speedster ventured. "Have any dreams last night?"

Lance had a quick, flashing memory, and could vaguely recall an explosion and a sense of overwhelming betrayal. He shook his head to clear it and forced a smile on his face that he hoped wasn't too obviously fake. 

"No, none that I can remember." 

The lie came easily, and seemed to satisfy Pietro into silence. They waited in this hush until the pot was full, and then Lance took it while the other boy fetched mugs, and the pair went back into the living room. 

Coffee was poured, and all drank it without sugar or cream, because none wanted to go back in the kitchen. They chattered about this and that and nothing in particular, but simply enjoyed each other's company. 

Until Pietro began to choke on his drink. 

When he had first sipped the coffee, he had felt a twitch somewhere deep inside, but ignored it. However, the more of the coffee he drank, the more caffeine seeped into his system. A trigger was pulled by the chemical, as sufficient fuel was provided for the final shift to occur. 

But shift into what?

So it was that Pietro suddenly felt his throat close up, and he couldn't swallow, and the world seemed to be getting blurry and he could no longer tell which way was up. The coffee mug slipped from his hand and shattered on the table, as he began to gag violently in the instinctive battle for air. 

Lance immediately grabbed his shoulders, thumped his back, tried to clear whatever obstruction he thought was in his throat. But Pietro grabbed his neck, shaking his head wildly, eyes rolling back.

"…water…!" he choked feebly. 

It was Todd that bolted for the kitchen, and they heard him fumbling to turn on the sink. 

For Pietro, everything was turning a vague shade of grey, and he slid out of Lance's arms and to the floor, on his back, convulsing as though in the grip of some horrible seizure. 

Wanda's arm knocked the coffee pot to the floor, and the carpet was stained the color of old blood as she raced to her brother's side, screaming his name desperately. His hand caught her wrist and held it in a death grip, and he hissed through clenched teeth,

"Make it stop, Wanda, for God's sake make it stop…"

His pleas were painful to hear, causing her physical agony as she, too, suddenly felt a tightening sensation in her chest. But it subsided as quickly as it came, even as his head fell back hard against the floor from the strain. And suddenly this stream of thought flew through her brain:__

_He knows. He knows it's hurting me, so he's trying to keep it all bottled up inside himself._

"I can take it, Pietro!" she shook him wildly. "I can take it! Don't try to hold it all on your own! Let me help you!"

As soon as Todd came rushing back in with a glass of water, Pietro was on his feet. None of them had seen him move at all, and there he stood, trembling violently. 

"Don't use your powers, man!" Lance barked it like an order. "You'll only make it worse!"

"I'mnotI'mnotIcan'tstopIcan'tstopyou'reallgettingslower…!"

Their eyes tried to follow him as he fled around the room, panicking, terrified, but his speed was too great for them to track. Wanda felt fingers digging into her sleeve, bruising her flesh, while at virtually the same time Lance felt himself shook frantically by the shoulders. 

A final, wretched scream ripped through the air, the sound of an animal in the trap looking down the muzzle of a gun and knowing its days are over. 

A gust of wind nearly knocked them all off their feet. 

Pietro was gone. 

Only this time, he did not reappear. 

~


	14. Through the Looking Glass Part Deux

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes:

GUESS WHO'S GOING TO NEW YORK?!!?!

Me. 

Ha ha. I am excited. Never fear, I'll be back in a little over a week. Far too short a time, if you ask me…

But before I go, behold! Where, exactly, is Pietro? Does_ he _even know? Let's find out! 

~

The scream echoed in his own ears even as the sound itself ended.

He was trembling like a leaf. 

His heart felt like it was going to explode out of his chest. 

But most terrifying at all, he felt completely and utterly alone. 

Never before had he experienced such absolute loneliness. It was as though he were the last surviving person on the planet, with no hope of human company ever, ever again. 

It was a despair that struck him harder than the slap across the face the night before. 

Pietro sighed. 

He looked at his shaking hands and tried to stop them with sheer willpower; they continued to quiver against his wishes. Passing one in front of his eyes, he took a tremulous breath and decided that he would have to calm himself before his hands. 

"Sorry, guys," he apologized absently. "I don't know what happened that time, either…"

It hurt all over. His whole body felt like it had been thrown through a garbage disposal, then dropped off a cliff. Then he had swum across the Pacific Ocean, and then been run over by a truck. 

But at the same time, with the same feeling, that same instant of sensation, he was utterly alive. He felt as though he had been turbo-charged, struck by lightning, zapped with the force of a thousand racecars. It was overwhelming. 

"Geez, what happened…?" he asked, half to himself, half to his companions. 

They did not respond. Having regained himself a little better, he chanced an annoyed look at them. 

"What, no sympa…"

The word 'sympathy' died in his throat when he saw them. 

They weren't moving. Weren't breathing, weren't blinking. Just standing there, stiff as statues, frozen in the very last positions he had seen them in before the scream. Wanda had her arms extended towards him, Lance also. Freddy was back a little ways; mouth still dropped open in shock. And Todd was rushing from the kitchen with a glass of water. 

"…guys…?"

The feeble whisper was snatched away by the all-powerful silence that enshrouded the world in his mind. He moved closer to them tentatively, confused. 

Joking! They must be joking! They were mad at him for going so fast all the time, so they were_ pretending _to be frozen to try and scare him. 

"Not funny." He snarled. 

No response. Panic rose in him. 

"I said that's not funny!" he screamed. 

Nothing. 

Marching up to Lance, he waved an angry hand in front of his face. But the eyes remained glassy and fixed on where he'd been standing moments ago. Irritated, Pietro tried shoving the older boy. The body lurched a little, but fell back into place like a wax dummy that had been momentarily thrown off balance. 

Raw fear coursed through his veins.

"Guys?" A frantic plea. "Guys? Cut it out! It's not funny!"

A hand waved before Wanda's eyes elicited the same reaction; none. Throwing himself at Freddy in desperation, he only ricocheted off the sturdy, rock solid figure. They were on freeze frame, paused as perfectly as if he had paused a movie. 

Racing over to Todd, Pietro was about to grab him when he saw something that made his blood run cold. The water in the glass had splashed up from the jostling it was getting. 

But the droplets were suspended in mid-air. 

Horrified, the silver-haired boy could only stare at the image, wondering briefly if he was dreaming. Finally, curiosity overcame fear, and he reached out to touch one of the drops. It burst on his fingertip like dew, but then the smaller drops hung in the air. 

What the hell was going on?

Then it hit him like a sledgehammer.__

_He was trapped in superspeed!_

It all rushed down on him, an ocean of information trying to gush into the tiny sink of his bewildered mind. This was exactly what it was like when he running at top speed! Only at top speed. He had to push himself and push himself, but then there would be a delightful shift as he found himself in the highest gear of all. It only lasted a short while, but for those instants he felt faster than time itself. 

But how had he gotten here? He hadn't been exerting himself in the least, let alone pushing himself past all normal limits. 

This was a question he could not answer. 

All he could deduce was that somehow, someway, he had shifted into Top Gear, as he quickly dubbed it, and become stuck there. It was like the clutch of a car snapping off at its greatest velocity. 

The early stages of panic were being rapidly replaced by his usual icy, logical self. 

Time to reason his way out of this.

First. Had to tell the others. As before, he must have disappeared, as they had described to him. He must be going to fast he was invisible to the human eye! His long-dead ego flared briefly at the thought, but the new Pietro was too careworn and exhausted to be intrigued by such things. 

He walked up to Lance. 

"I'm stuck." He said solemnly. "I'm stuck in Top Gear, and I can't get out."

No reaction. The eyelids were halfway shut. He must be blinking. Frustration welled inside of him. 

"I'm stuck!" he said, louder. "I don't want to be! I want to come back!"

The face remained locked in the surprise of his initial disappearance. The loneliness came back, and the panic, and the sudden crushing realization there might be no coming back. 

"Can you hear me?" he screamed. "I need help! I want to come back to you! Dammit, listen to me!"

Tears burned in his eyes, tears of rage and terror, and he dashed them away with a furious hand. It was trembling. Biting his lip, he focused all of his panicky energy into stopping the shaking. He had to close his eyes so he wouldn't be looking at his petrified companions. 

The quivering stopped, and Pietro felt stronger.

He also felt like a lost little kid. He vaguely remembered being in an open market, when he was very small. There were maybe hundreds of people there, and somehow, he had gotten separated from his father. This was, of course, when he still trusted the bastard, and so of course he had panicked. 

He was surrounded by people and yet he was utterly alone. 

This was how it was now. 

Raking a no-longer-trembling hand through his hair, he tried to think. His brain felt like liquid, melted, and he was strangely dizzy. Maybe going at Top Gear for too long did this to him. Absently, he checked his own pulse, curious. 

It was like the purr of an engine. There were no separate beats. Just a hum, a throb, and he could feel it vibrating inside his chest. 

It was disturbing. 

Had to tell the guys. 

How?

Wandering around the house, he shivered against the silence that seemed to assault him like an actual cold wind, tearing at his skin and soul. 

At last his eyes settled on a notepad, and he eventually found a pen. 

It was difficult to focus; like his brain was going too fast for his body to catch up with, but then it was suddenly vice versa. He found himself back in the living room before he realized he had even gone there. 

Bringing pen to paper, he decided to ignore the fact that he was shaking again. There was no stopping it. His own body was beyond his control, now. Just had to get back as soon as possible. 

He wrote a message as calmly and clearly as he could. Tried to keep it simple, tried not to sound as scared shitless as he was. 

And idea occurred to him. 

Quickly and with new confidence, he scrawled down his orders to Lance. Ripping off the piece of paper, he offered it to the other boy. 

"Here," he said automatically. 

When Lance didn't take it, it was another slap in the face. Still trapped. Get used to it, and fast, or you're going to go crazy.

With some difficulty, he managed to unfold the older teenager's fingers, stuff the note into his palm, and fold the fingers again. He decided to loiter around for a while and see what would happen. Maybe he would click back, like he did before. 

No such luck. 

The only thing he saw was the blink Lance had started minutes ago finish its course. 

Unable to bear it any longer, he headed for the front door. Might as well go see what the world would be like with him as the only person alive. Moving, anyway. It would be like that old Star Trek episode. 

He was trying to convince himself everything was going to be okay. 

But suddenly he felt heartsick. 

Not sick like nauseated, which was how he felt often enough. Not sick like a headache, which was what he had often enough. This sensation was completely new. It was a pang deep in his chest, not of physical pain, but emotional. He suddenly felt crippled inside, because he was realizing that it might be the end. He might be trapped here forever. 

He might never talk to these people again. 

So he studied their faces carefully, reverently, trying not to feel too much like a prisoner marching to death row. All the panic of earlier was gone, all of the fury and the terror and frustration. He felt calm. 

There was one more thing to do. Hurrying to the notepad, he was about to write something, but froze. He thought for a long time on what to put on the paper, long enough for the figures in the living room to have changed subtly in their stance, most notably Lance's gaze was now moving towards the note in his hand. 

At last, Pietro knew. And he wrote three careful words on the paper. This he tore off and folded up neatly, and placed in Wanda's hand. Kissing her on the cheek, he whispered, "Don't leave me here."

Sucking in a deep breath, he went to the front door, and stepped into a world that was like nothing he had ever seen. 

~


	15. Out of the Frying Pan

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

  
  


Author's Notes: Ahhh, I loved New York. Now I'm on another vacation in South Carolina. The sea air is good for my angst muse. I lost track of him when I saw 'The Producers', but then I read 'A Streetcar Named Desire' and found him lurking there with all the symbolism and stuff. 

  
  


Anyway. This has to be my least favorite chapter yet, but bear with me. It is always most difficult to get from one point of the story to another. Like 'JAWS' is two different movies (shark attacks and shark hunting), so 'Melting Point' is two different stories. For everyone who wanted me to bring in more characters, rejoice! Your wait is over! 

  
  


PS- Did anyone else think 'No Good Deed' completely screwed up Pietro's character? Thank heavens I started 'Melting Point' pre-Apocalypse! 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~

  
  


It was a like a black hole had just opened up in front of them. Something, something huge and wild and uncontrollable had just swung open invisible jaws, closed them over Pietro, and snapped shut, taking him with them, leaving only the scream of absolute panic ringing in the air. 

  
  


Todd, still in mid-run, was so startled by the disappearance that he tripped and crashed to the floor, the water spilling from the glass and cascading over the carpet to be absorbed. 

  
  


Fred, moving towards where Pietro had been, now stood dumb and confused, arms still stretched out to catch the speedster lest he had bolted in a frenzy. 

  
  


Wanda fell on her hands and knees. She had been rushing to grab him, to try and get a hold on him and help him, and in that desperation had jumped. Her arms had closed on thin air, and so she landed hard on the ground where he had been standing a split-second ago. Strangely, she felt a piece of paper in her hand, and she absently stuffed it in her pocket as she rocked back on her heels in despair. 

  
  


Lance, who had also been lunging to grab Pietro's arm, had the sense to lean backwards and counter his forward motion, somehow knowing he would never be fast enough to catch his friend. He, too, suddenly became aware of a sheet of paper in his grip, and he spared it a grim glance without really seeing what it said. 

  
  


Everyone was holding their breath. It happened yesterday. Pietro was gone, they panicked, Pietro was back, everything went back to normal. Seconds ticked by. An entire minute elapsed before Todd let the air rush from his lungs in defeat. 

  
  


"He's not here." he said stupidly. 

  
  


"He's coming back." Fred argued calmly. 

  
  


Todd shifted to his feet, eyes still frantically scouring the room, ears still straining for the same rush of air that would signal Pietro's return. 

  
  


Nothing. 

  
  


Wanda still knelt on the floor, breathing hard. In the briefest span of time, scarcely a moment, she had been panicked, calm, angry, frustrated, lost, confused, heartsick. This wasn't her. She knew herself, knew that her reaction to things was usually logical and measured. No, it wasn't her. 

  
  


It was him. 

  
  


She jumped a mile when Todd's hand settled on her shoulder. 

  
  


"You okay?" he asked, voice full of worry. 

  
  


"Fine." she lied, standing up and willing herself to stop trembling. "I'm fine."

  
  


Lance, in the meantime, had looked about the room again, before his eyes fell on the paper in his hand. It was covered in scrawled, yet elegant handwriting that at first he didn't recognize. It wasn't his. Wasn't Todd's. Wasn't Fred's. Then he remembered seeing the handwriting in a crossword puzzle, in which the only word filled in was 'diaphanous'. 

  
  


It was Pietro's. 

  
  


Instantly the paper became monumentally important, and he clutched it with both hands as though it might fly away. Hungry eyes tore over the message, somehow knowing that it had been sent to him from wherever Pietro was in the belly of the invisible beast that had swallowed him up.

  
  


This is what it said-

  
  


Lance-

  
  


Stuck in Top Gear. Everything going in slow motion. Can't think. Need help. Trying to slow down, can't, can't get out of Top Gear. Something snapped. Clicked. Broken stick shift, can't find the brakes. I'm sorry; the speed is messing with my mind. Can't think. 

  
  


Go to Xavier! He's got all sorts of medical crap in that place, I've seen it. He fixed Grey's meltdown, he can fix mine. Just suck in your stupid pride and go ask him for help. 

  
  


I just want to come back. 

  
  


- P

  
  


The comforting thing was, even as he read it, he could hear Pietro's voice saying those exact words. Pietro wrote exactly how he spoke; fast, disconnected, somewhat confusing unless you had already spent a good deal of time learning to decipher it. 

  
  


So Pietro was trapped. 

  
  


"Guys," Lance managed to say, drawing all attention to him. 

  
  


"What's that?" Todd noticed the paper at once. 

  
  


"It's from Pietro."

  
  


"Pietro?" Wanda cried, and before Lance could think she had wrenched the note from his grasp and was reading it herself. 

  
  


When she finished, she moaned and pressed a weary hand to her forehead to ease the headache that was forming. Todd slid the note from her grip and read it himself, his face distorting in confusion and fear as he passed it on to Fred, who absorbed the information in brooding silence.

  
  


"So, uh..." Todd began in a shaky voice. "What do we do now?"

  
  


"We go to Xavier." Wanda stated. "We have no choice." 

  
  


This did not settle well with the boys. Their egos could not bear the thought of whining to the X-Geeks for help. It just didn't make sense to them. They'd spend countless days working themselves to the bone to avoid that very predicament. 

  
  


"Maybe we could ask Magneto for help..." Fred shuffled awkwardly. 

  
  


At the name of Magneto, Wanda felt something split in her head. In one instant, she thought of the loving father that had taken her on picnics and raised her so well. But she also was filled with rage and hatred, a fury she did not understand. 

  
  


A third emotion charged through her, a voice that was not her own; Trust your instincts, not our father. 

  
  


And she wondered for not the first time why Pietro was absent in all her childhood memories. After the age of six, he vanished as though he had never existed. Something was very, very wrong. 

  
  


In this instant, she knew that Magneto was not to be trusted. 

  
  


"No," she said firmly. "We're on our own, here. Xavier is the only option we have."

  
  


Again, the gazes drifted to the ground, to the ceiling, anywhere but her. They were still trying to wriggle out of it, each one wracking their brains for anyone else they could go to. 

  
  


Wanda felt power surge behind her hands, and an ominous blue glow formed around her fists. 

  
  


"We are going to Xavier." she ground out. "Magneto cannot help us, but Xavier can. Just suck in your stupid pride and go ask him for help."

  
  


Pietro's words gained new power when uttered from such angry lips. The unspoken threat was dire. It was Todd who spoke up first, because it was Todd that was the most flexible. 

  
  


"Yeah, man, why we just standing here?" He was suddenly filled with resolve. "It's just stupid to stand here and argue! If we want Pietro back, we gotta start at the one guy who can do it." 

  
  


Fred nodded. 

  
  


"Xavier can do anything!" he agreed. 

  
  


All three turned their burning eyes to Lance, who was suddenly forced to realize how futile and stubborn he could be sometimes. He found himself in one of those horrible moments where you can beat yourself up, you're so angry at your own petty feelings. 

  
  


"I'll get the keys to the Jeep." he said. 

  
  


Trotting up the stairs, he swung in to his room and snatched the keys off the dresser. Pietro's door was open, and he poked his head inside as though he half-expected to see the speedster sitting on his bed and laughing hysterically at his prank. 

  
  


Instead, he noticed for the first time a plain, black cellphone resting on the night stand. And without really knowing why, he snatched it up and stuffed it in his pocket. 

  
  


By the time he got out to the Jeep, everyone else was already piled in and waiting. Wanda looked on the verge of dragging him over to them with her powers; a lethal determination now filled her. He all but ran to jump into the car and start it, flying down the road at a pace that reeked of desperation. 

  
  


It was a long drive to the mansion of Charles Xavier. 

  
  


Heavy silence now weighed on them, each one willing the car to just materialize in front of the mansion. Todd briefly wished he had a more useful power, like teleportation, but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, and if wishes were riches, there would be no beggars left to be making up philosophical phrases about. 

  
  


A Corvette zipped towards them in the opposite lane and rushed past them and onwards. Wanda felt the furious determination draining from her, only to be replaced by a weak feeling of helplessness. She began praying to any God that might exist that Xavier would indeed know what to do. 

  
  


The ringing of a cellphone gave them all a jolt. 

  
  


"It's not mine!" Todd yelped automatically. 

  
  


"You don't even have a cellphone." Fred pointed out. 

  
  


"Lance," Wanda said quietly. "It's coming from your pocket."

  
  


"Lance?" Todd screeched. "Since when did you have a cellphone? Why didn't you tell us?"

  
  


"I don't!" The driver snapped impatiently. "I've never owned a cellphone."

  
  


"Then you got pretty musical pants, yo, 'cause that ringing is starting to sound like 'The Ride of the Valkyries'."

  
  


It was Wagner's famous piece, and Lance remembered the cellphone he had grabbed from the night stand. 

  
  


"Shit!" he cried, fumbling to get it out. "It's Pietro's!"

  
  


"You stole from Pietro?" Fred was aghast. 

  
  


"No! I just borrowed it! Hang on..."

  
  


Retrieving it, Lance pressed 'answer' and brought the phone to his ear. 

  
  


"Hello?"

  
  


"Quicksilver, status report."

  
  


The voice froze his blood in his veins. Clipped, cold, and utterly devoid of emotion, it was a voice that belonged to the one person who had ever truly scared him. 

  
  


"It's Magneto!" he mouthed silently to the others. 

  
  


"Status report!" the voice requested again, and he flinched. 

  
  


Wanda felt her angry side stir, and a sudden piercing fury filled her that she knew did not come from herself. But still, it felt right, and she again had the definite feeling that Magneto had somehow cheated her out of something. 

  
  


She grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear, just as the voice repeated "Status report!" for the third time. 

  
  


"Here's a status report for you, you cold-hearted bastard." Venom filled her heart, and the anger at her father was so familiar that she enjoyed it. "Your precious son has no control over his powers and is most likely in peril of his life. Claims that he can't slow down and it's messing with his mind."

  
  


"Wanda?" Magneto's voice cut in, full of confusion. 

  
  


"End of report, sir." She said in a sharp voice. 

  
  


Then, without even turning it off, she winged the cellphone out of the car, causing Fred and Todd to whip around in their seats to watch as it shattered on the road. 

  
  


She slumped in her seat, quiet, exhausted. She felt herself coming back, remembered how kind her father was and why in the hell had she just yelled at him like that? Her gut told her that the anger was justified, but Magneto had taken her on picnics and raised her so well. Or had he? 

  
  


Trust your instincts, not our father. 

  
  


Lance, meanwhile, decided not to question her. Still, he felt a little thrill of admiration in his heart for her. How long had he wanted to say something like that to Magneto? How long had he wanted to do nothing more than spit in his face? And here she was, his daughter, and she was the one with the guts to do it. 

  
  


The silence that now enshrouded them was one of deep contemplation. Where did Pietro get a cellphone? But more importantly, why was Magneto calling him on it? Lance chalked it down to that whole stupid spiel about Pietro being the new leader of the Brotherhood. Bullshit. Magneto didn't want him around, that was for sure. But why? Why would Magneto shunt away one of the best mutants on his team? 

  
  


These questions would remain unanswered for now. 

  
  


Xavier's mansion loomed ahead. 

  
  


Somewhere on the lonely highway, the remains of a cellphone were crushed into tiny shards under the vengeful wheels of a semi-truck. 

  
  


~

  
  



	16. The Courage to Ask for Help

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.   
  


Author's Notes: And, here's another chapter. I've decided that pretty much every chapter is going to begin with a brief visit to Pietro!speed, before we return to the bulk of the plot with the rest of the gang. There will be chapters in the future with all Pietro, and other chapters with just the others. So bear with me.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~  
  


It was a long, cold journey down an endless, winding road.   
  


Pietro's first instinct was to run, run like hell until something snapped and he blew into a million pieces. Or maybe if he ran fast enough he would exhaust himself and slip back to normal speed.   
  


But something told him that if he ran any faster, it would only make things worse.   
  


So he forced himself to walk at a heavy, resigned pace, moving with trudging, shuffling movements like a prisoner walking to the gallows. He was somewhere on the road into Bayville, the house at his back, the road at his feet, and a seemingly empty world before him.   
  


He glanced into the sky and saw birds suspended in their flight.   
  


He walked down the highway and saw cars sitting at a standstill on the road.   
  


Walking up to a Corvette that dawdled there lifelessly, he surveyed its' sole occupant. A young woman was behind the wheel, one hand on it and the other holding a cellphone to her ear. Her mouth hung open in the middle of forming a word.   
  


Pietro kicked her tires and moved on.   
  


He was frustrated, and stressed, and he felt hyper tense all over his body. A twitchy anxiousness filled him, giving him an erratic gait that made him weave from side to side in the road.   
  


He got the absurd notion that he could run to the moon.   
  


Top Gear was wearing on him already, and he struggled to keep it under control. A sort of speed-induced madness was trying to creep into his mind, and it took a good deal of willpower to harness it and hold it at bay.   
  


But how long could he keep such a feat up?  
  


Such monumental battles cannot be fought alone.   
  


And he was alone, now, more alone than he had ever been. More alone than when they had taken Wanda, more alone than when he had woken up in the night in the grips of some nightmare to find himself in willing isolation, more alone even than when he had turned his back on his friends to stand by a pillar of ice and abuse.   
  


Loneliness is a bitter thing to witness, but even more horrible to endure.  
  


So he started chewing his fingernails, an old nervous habit he had thought long since broken.   
  


Funny how things can come back to haunt you like that.   
  


~  
  


The Jeep sat outside the gates of Xavier's mansion, as though the car itself dreaded venturing onto that hated turf. Behind the wheel, Lance chewed his lower lip thoughtfully and briefly pondered this peculiar situation. How long ago had he stomped out of those gates, swearing to himself he would never return? How long ago had he turned his back on this place for what he thought would be forever? And now here he was, about to willingly return.   
  


Life could sure be a bitch.   
  


The gates opened automatically, probably sensing the car and thinking it was Summers and the Brat Pack coming back from school. Sometimes it was a blessing to be expelled; gave them convenient time slots like this to fraternize with the enemy without the enemy's bratty students wandering around.  
  


Stopping at the door, Lance sucked in a deep breath and gave the others what he hoped a confident, reassuring look.   
  


"Okay," he said faintly. "Here we go."  
  


And up the steps they went to knock timidly on the door.   
  


"At least you're not quaking your way in this time," Todd attempted a feeble joke, but Lance silenced him with a murderous glare.   
  


Wanda sensed that something was up. Tensions were unusually high. Something big had definitely gone down here that she did not know about. Pietro was the historian who had filled her in on all the Brotherhood's biggest exploits, but what she and Lance did not know was that he had preserved the rock tumbler's reputation by tactfully avoiding the Lance-wants-to-be-an-X-Man period.   
  


Still, Wanda knew at once that something was being kept from her. What dark chapter in the Brotherhood's history had her brother shielded her from?   
  


The other boys knew, and they felt guilt, because they were suddenly reminded that Pietro was not the first one of their group to turn traitor.  
  


~  
  


When Logan answered the door, the last thing he expected to see was the entirety of the Brotherhood camped out on his doorstep. He sent a hasty mental plea to Charles to get his ass down here and assist him.  
  


"Well," he drawled. "Look what the Lance dragged in. Welcome back, earth-shaker. Here for another round?"  
  


Lance glared at him with a ferocity hampered by weariness.   
  


"Actually, I don't think you guys could handle a real mutant on your team."  
  


"I could say the same about you."   
  


Tempers were being kindled, and things would have probably escalated into a fight had not a friendly voice interrupted them.   
  


"Ah, Lance! What brings you here?"  
  


Professor Xavier had arrived, and he brought with him all his usual tranquility and calm. To Wanda, he was instantly familiar in a strange, deja vu kind of way.   
  


But the Brotherhood boys suddenly found themselves at a loss for words. What were they going to say? "We need help"? "Pietro's gone off the deep end"? "Do you know how to stop an out of control speed demon"?  
  


"Something's wrong..." Lance began lamely.   
  


"Real wrong." Todd added helpfully.   
  


"Yeah... wrong..." Fred echoed.   
  


Logan spared the Professor a raised eyebrow.  
  


-Well, what do we do with them, Chuck?-   
  


-Perhaps we can get them to explain a bit more.- Then, out loud, "Would you care to elaborate?"  
  


"It's Pietro." Wanda stepped forward. "Something's happening to him and he can't control his speed. He told us you would be able to help."  
  


Both the Professor and Logan noticed the absence of the speedster simultaneously, and Xavier was gradually opening himself to them and feeling the intense fear and worry radiating off of them.   
  


"Where is he?" he asked.   
  


"Who knows?" Todd said bitterly. "He took off and can't hit the brakes."  
  


"Are you meanin' to say that Speedy is runnin' around so fast we can't see him?" Logan didn't want to buy the idea that the biggest maniac in Bayville was now invisible.   
  


"What do you think?" Lance snarled.   
  


"That's what seems to be the case, Logan," Xavier said softly. And to the rest of them, "Perhaps you'd like to come inside?"  
  


~  
  


The Brotherhood settled into the fancy livingroom with stiffness and very little grace.   
  


Fred sat on the floor, absurdly terrified of shattering that beautiful, dainty-looking furniture.   
  


Todd sat smack in the middle of a luxurious couch, his hands trapped between his knees and sitting absolutely still, lest he destroy something.   
  


Wanda, out of all them, seemed to care the least. She slumped onto another couch and buried her face in her hands, trying to shut out the sights and sounds of prosperity all around her.   
  


Lance, being the leader at the moment, found himself taken to another room for a quiet conference with the Professor.   
  


~  
  


"...and since Pietro's been in here before, we figured he must have seen stuff in that medical place that can fix him. So we came here."  
  


Tired from the retelling of the whole, stressful story, Lance accepted the cup of black coffee that Logan offered him. He took long, moody sips from it as the Professor asked him an array of careful questions.   
  


"Has Pietro ever lost control like this before?"  
  


"Only that one time I told you about, and he came right back."  
  


"Has he been taking any drugs, like Speed or Ecstasy, that might have triggered this?"  
  


"No, none."  
  


"Does Erik- rather, Magneto know about this?"  
  


The last question made Lance slam his coffee cup back on the table in surprise.   
  


"Well, yeah... I guess... yeah, Wanda told him."  
  


Maybe that was the wrong thing to say; Xavier passed a weary hand over his eyes and looked very grave indeed. He knew that it wouldn't be long before Erik showed up searching for his son, whether out of affection or merely in the way one looks for some useful tool they have misplaced. And if Erik and Wanda were to have a confrontation, things could get ugly.   
  


But still, Kurt had reported what sketchy details he had of what had been done at the ski resort, and that was promising in the effect that it suggested there would be no conflict.   
  


Now for the task at hand.   
  


"Thank you, Lance, for coming to us. I'm sure it was the right thing to do. I suggest you return to your friends now."  
  


The boy nodded and left the room in lost silence, his coffee growing cold on the table. Xavier turned to Logan and said,   
  


"Send Hank in here. He's going to be needed."  
  


~  
  


As Lance told the story, the rest of the Brotherhood was left in a painful, awkward silence. Wanda asked Todd why he was sitting so stiffly, and he gave her the hissed answer that it was the only way to keep himself from breaking everything in the room. Why?, she had asked, to which he responded: "I break expensive things. It must be part of my mutation."  
  


As they waited in this tension, they were watched from across the room.   
  


"I've always felt sorry for them."  
  


Ororo Munroe gave this comment in a whispered voice to her companion, Hank McCoy, as the two adults watched the group from a half-open doorway.   
  


"No kids should be expected to support themselves so young." He agreed in the same soft tone. "It just isn't right. It makes you wonder where their parents are."  
  


"I lie awake at night thinking about, no joke. I wonder about that little Tolensky boy, and Fred, the poor thing. How young were they when they starting fending for themselves?"  
  


"Very young, I'll wager. That kind of survival instinct takes years to cultivate. It's the only thing that can keep you alive, sometimes."  
  


"Do you ever wish we could keep them here? Keep them safe and well-fed?"  
  


"They're not stray dogs, Ororo. We can't just take them in and give them collars and licenses."  
  


"Hank, I'm serious. They're only children, not soldiers of war. They shouldn't have to live like that."  
  


"They use younger children as guerilla warriors in some countries."  
  


"But this is America. We're above that."  
  


"Are we? Tell me we're above that when we're training fifteen-year olds in the Danger Room to fight battles too big for them to handle."  
  


"It just doesn't seem right with them, though. They don't get any training at all, and then they're expected to fight a war for a cause I'm not sure even they believe in."  
  


Lance appeared in one doorway, and the teens all seemed to lean towards him in anticipation. He gave them a forced smile.   
  


"I think it's gonna be okay. I think they're gonna help."  
  


The relief was tangible. Ororo wanted to go to them, to offer them something to eat or drink or anything, but then Logan materialized as well and the silence fell again, stiff and brittle.   
  


Logan, for his part, ignored them efficiently and went right to the doorway the two adults were hiding behind, smelling their scents from all the way across the room and blowing their cover. Ororo darted back into the kitchen and hoped to preserve the image that she had just been passing by.   
  


Hank, in the meanwhile, would have no such luck.   
  


"The Prof's lookin' for ya, Blue. Things are pretty serious."  
  


Nodding solemnly, Hank McCoy decided to go into this situation with all the detachment and professionalism of a doctor.   
  


He would not get emotionally involved.  
  


He would not think of his patient as a child who could be dying.   
  


He would not be able to handle it if it was that way.  
  


~  
  


When Logan and Hank left the room, the Brotherhood grouped together in a protective huddle on one sofa. Todd sat in the same place in the middle, with Lance and Wanda on either side, and Fred sitting in front on the floor and facing them.   
  


It reminded Ororo of how the zebra herds grouped together in her native Africa, with the stronger ones supporting and protecting their weakest member.   
  


This was only further proved when Lance put an awkward arm over Todd's shoulders, giving him a gentle squeeze and saying, "Hey, it's gonna be okay." The smaller boy nodded half-heartedly.   
  


Finally summoning the courage to face them, she walked into the room with a warm smile.   
  


"Can I get you anything to eat or drink?"  
  


"Sure." Fred grunted. "Anything. Everything."  
  


Eating was therapy for Fred. He would eat a car tire if someone put it before him now, he was that nervous.   
  


The others either nodded or shrugged, so Ororo took it upon herself to bring them a generous tray of cookies and snacks.   
  


~  
  


But in the kitchen, she received a telepathic message from Jean.   
  


-Hey, Ororo, Kurt wants to know when lunch is.-  
  


Confused, she sent back, -Why? Aren't you eating at school?-  
  


-We had a half day, remember? We're on Christmas break, now!-  
  


She remember stupidly that Christmas was in a week. Dropping the cup she was carrying, Ororo suddenly realized something that was definitely not good.   
  


The X-Men were coming home to find their worst enemies in their livingroom.   
  


Not good at all.   
  


~  
  



	17. Tensions Are High

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

1. Author's Notes: Yes, I'm late. Yes, this is a comparatively short chapter. I'm still trying to kick this second part of the story into motion. Give me a few tries, we'll start up the engine eventually. ; )

~

Shock. Awe. Fear. Curiosity. Terror. 

Far too many emotions chugged through Pietro's system all at once, and he fell to his knees as he was overrun. 

Bayville was silent. 

The cars posed in the street like a photo finish, the people posed on the sidewalk like a magazine. Mouths hung open soundless. Engines ran in deathly stillness. The hum and the buzz of the city had been reduced to the thundering of his own heart in his ears.

"Hello?" he whispered timidly. 

No response. Obviously. 

Encouraged, he sidled over and plucked a cell phone from a young man's hands. Dropped it in a trashcan. Ha ha ha. Liberated an expensive necklace from a woman's neck. Placed it on the woman who was talking with her. 

Ha ha ha. 

Suddenly everything seemed fun and free and he would never have to worry about anything again and he could just keep on playing tricks and causing chaos and wreaking havoc and it would never ever have to stop. 

Click. 

Sanity took hold once more, and he took up a keening wail that would have haunted any person's nightmares. 

~

Far away, in the deepest parts of her mind, Wanda heard that scream. 

~

-Charles!- Ororo called out mentally, desperately. -The children are on their way home! Christmas break!-

-Meet them at the door.- His voice responded calmly. -Tell them as little as possible, only that something has happened and they must not bother us in the sitting room.-

-I'll do my best.-

-Oh, and allow Scott, Jean, Rogue, and Evan to come in here. I think they ought to be a part of this.-

-Evan?- She was incredulous. -But he hates…- Then she realized. -Yes. I'll send them in.-

~

Chattering, vacation-thrilled students entering the X-Mansion came face to face with a very solemn looking weather mutant. 

"Ms. Munroe?" Jamie inquired nervously. "Somethin' wrong?"

"Perhaps." She replied vaguely. "The Professor would prefer if you did not interrupt him; he's conducting some business in the sitting room. Please do not disturb him."

"Sure thing!" Bobby piped up. "I was heading for the entertainment room, anyway!"

"Dibs on the X-Box!" Sam cried. 

The teens went pounding off to the left in a rush and amid shouts of "Dibs!". Ororo managed to snag Scott's elbow, and nailed the other three with a meaningful look. 

"You four," she said quietly. "The Professor would like to see in the sitting room."

"What's the deal, Auntie O?" Evan was suspicious. 

She gave him no response but a light nudge in the right direction, as she herself returned to the kitchen. The chosen few gave each other anxious looks. 

"All right," Scott said. "What'd you guys do?"

"What'd we do?" Jean countered. "What'd you do?"

"Wasn't me." Rogue snapped defensively. 

The three older teens all glared at their younger companion. Evan threw up his hands instinctively. 

"Hey, don't look at me!"

"Look," Scott sighed. "We'd better go see what he wants."

"Good idea." Rogue shoved him towards the door. "You first."

~

The last thing Scott expected to see in the sitting room was the Brotherhood. 

The last thing Lance expected to see in the doorway was the Geek Patrol. 

Both leaders sprang towards each other and hovered a distance apart, ready to defend their companions should things get rough. 

"Summers!"

"Alvers!"

In unison; "What are you doing here?"

"Don't you have school or something?" 

"I think I have the more legitimate complaint; what are you doing in our house?"

"Guys!" Rogue didn't know whether to be happy about the sight of her former housemates or not. "What are you doing here?"

"Okay, Pietro, this little stunt has…" The threat died in Evan's mouth. "Hey, where is he?"

"All right everybody, let's just calm down!" 

As usual, Jean was the voice of reason. Fred settled back to the floor with an angry look, while Evan rocked on the balls of his feet, ready for a fight. Rogue crossed her arms and tried to look neutral, while Wanda and Todd braced themselves for some kind of attack. Only two people ignored her. 

"Lance, Scott, knock it off!"

The two ceased their murderous glaring at each other and looked at her impatiently. 

"What?"

"Where's Pietro?" Evan tried again, half-expecting his rival to zip up behind him and give him a scare. "Is he lurking around here somewhere?"

"He just might be, Porcupine," They all jumped a mile and noticed Logan in the corner. "He might be right behind you."

Evan whipped around defensively and saw thin air. 

"Is this some kind of a joke?" he demanded. 

"Do you see anyone laughing?" Wanda spoke at last. 

The four X-Men turned suspicious eyes on her. The last time they'd seen her, she'd been ripping up a mall or being targeted by a pyromaniac. She looked much less threatening now, in an oversized sweatshirt and with her hair sticking every which way after a sound night's sleep. 

"No." Jean said softly. "No one's laughing. Something is wrong, isn't it?"

"That's a helluva understatement, yo." Todd snorted. 

"Look, what's going on here?" Scott was frustrated by the lack of information. "Why are these guys in here, anyway?"

"We need help." Fred said grudgingly. 

"Help?" Evan was skeptical. "You guys? Did Pietro set you up to this?"

"Yes." Wanda said, because he did, actually. 

"I knew it." Evan snarled darkly. 

"It's not quite like you think, Evan."

The Professor's voice brought comfort as he wheeled into the room with Hank behind him. He gave his students a stern look. 

"Something has happened here that may or may not end up well. Will you all sit down?"

Lance retreated to the couch with his fellows. Scott, Jean, and Evan piled onto the opposite sofa. Hank claimed the only easy chair. Rogue glanced around and saw a vacancy. She sat down next to Lance, prompting both him and Professor X to raise their eyebrows in surprise. 

"Now," the Professor continued. "Some of you may recall that a few months ago, Jean's powers underwent a bit of a change."

"Oh no," Jean inhaled sharply. "What happened?"

"Well," he continued. "As near as we can tell, our Mr. Maximoff seems to be undergoing the same kind of change."

"But… how?" Scott cocked his head. "He can't levitate things or anything…"

"He appears to be trapped in his own superspeed and unable to slow down."

"Whoa, man," Evan held up his hands. "Pietro's stuck on fast forward?"

"That seems to be the case at the moment."

"Why us?" Rogue said quietly. Everyone looked at her. "Professor, why us four?"

He smiled at her warmly. 

"Scott and Jean, naturally because they are the oldest and more mature of the students. And you and Evan… let's just say you've had previous relations with this group."

Rogue darted a look at the people on the couch with her. She held the firm belief that by now they all hated her guts anyway. Lance, Wanda, and Fred were looking at the Professor. But Todd was looking back at her, and he gave her a tiny smile of reassurance. At least one of them still liked her. 

"Hank is going to get to work on figuring this out." The Professor went on. "In the meantime, the Brotherhood will be staying here, so you'll all have to be gracious hosts."

"We don't need any charity." Lance stepped in hastily. "Don't do us any favors. Just get Pietro outta this."

Xavier nodded. "I understand."

He left the room with Hank, probably heading downstairs to the lab to get cracking. They heard Hank saying, "It's going to be difficult with so little information to work with…" Logan hovered silently in the corner to insure that they didn't attack each other. 

A tense silence descended. 

Todd leaned across Lance's lap and patted Rogue on the knee. 

"It's good to see you," Then, as an afterthought, "I mean, seeing you without you smashing my face into something'.

"Yeah, Rogue, what's the deal?" Lance nudged her. "We know you fit in better with us any day." 

"Hey, she fits in with us fine." Scott said promptly. 

"Hey, guys," Rogue said wearily. "Let's not get started on that."

"Was it something we said?" Fred ignored her last request. 

Rogue thought wearily back to many things. In rapid succession she remembered life with the boys; Fred ordering ten pizzas at a go, Todd practicing crawling on the ceiling and failing, Lance playing guitar, Pietro running laps around the living room until there was little path in the carpet. 

Then she remembered Mystique. 

"No," she sighed heavily. "It wasn't because of you boys."

As if summoned, Ororo appeared with a tray of Oreos and several glasses of milk.

"Anyone hungry?" she asked. 

"And how!" Fred replied enthusiastically. 

He turned himself around to be facing the coffee table she set the tray down on, and dug in. Rogue smiled; some things were always a constant, even in a state of crisis. Life, death, and Freddy's appetite. 

Scott and Jean shared uneasy glances. Both had a feeling that their usual calm and collected demeanors were about to be stretched to the breaking point. 

~


	18. The Joke's On You

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: AI YI YI! I am SO bad at updating this story. I cannot apologize enough. Seriously. However, I have gotten a new dry erase board and on it will be a constant reminder to be working on this story. Seriously. I love you all, thank you so much for all the great reviews. 

PS- Lavender, I've never been proposed to before. I'm flattered. ^_^

PPS- *slaps forehead* I can't believe I wrote a feel-good chapter! But it happened. I guess you guys all get a little breather before we take the unstoppable plunge into… *deep announcer voice* The Valley of ANNNNNNNNNNGST!!! Read. Enjoy. Laugh. Beware. :D__

_"You are the audience. I am the author. I outrank you!" --- The Producers_

~

Sneak, sneak, sneak. 

Even though there was no way anyone would spot him, Pietro felt absurdly naughty, creeping around Bayville and causing all sorts of mischief. This must be what it felt like to be a God. Like Hermes, that one mischievous guy. Or Eris. The spirit of discord and chaos! Yes! That was it!

He did a little dance at his remembrance of this obscure fact. 

His feet struck the pavement with the volume of timpani drums. 

They'd get him out of this soon enough, sure. Had to keep promising himself that. In the meantime, had to keep busy. Had to think of all the things he regularly did in Top Gear. 

He had vague memories of running up a skyscraper, and further back running up and over a ten-foot fence. Fun. Maybe… just maybe…

Wandering over to the nearest building, a bank, he stared at it long and hard, as if judging a race he was about to run. Then carefully, tentatively, he set a foot on the wall.

Before he could think too much about it, he ran a few steps up the wall and waited to land on his back and break his spine. 

He stuck. 

Pietro Maximoff was standing at a ninety-degree angle to the pavement. Just like Spider-Man.

"Spider-Man!" he giggled. 

Taking a few steps higher and singing the 'Spider-Man' theme music, he suddenly froze, overwhelmed by the dizzying paranoia that his gravity might return and he would plummet helplessly to the street below. 

He beat a hasty retreat to the sidewalk, but the panic didn't end. Panic. Panic. 

Need Wanda. 

Must be at the Institute by now. 

Setting off at a run for the Mansion, he slowed down and forced himself to walk as slowly as possible. 

Had to give them time.

~

The Oreos didn't stand a chance. 

It was like sending the Pillsbury Doughboy to fight Godzilla. One by one they bit the dust, or rather, Fred bit_ them, _until those yummy little chocolate cookies had all but vanished. 

Everyone was watching him in fascination as he consumed what must have been a whole package. The X-Men were fascinated, anyway; for the Brotherhood, this was quite normal. Nothing out of the ordinary if Freddy tucked away half the pantry in one sitting. 

As if he could sense them all watching them, he stopped. Milk dripping comically off his chin, one cookie in mid-transition from plate to mouth, he glanced around at them all uncertainly. Nudging the plate with three lonely Oreos on it in Jean's direction, he grinned at her. 

"Cookie?"

Shockingly, she managed a polite smile while shaking her head. With a shrug, he finished the last three off without mercy. Scott felt strangely sorry for them. 

Ororo, lingering in the doorway and being the expert she was at reading faces, didn't miss the longing look Todd gave the last Oreo as it went down the hatch. Clearing her throat pointedly, she suggested, 

"Does anyone want lunch?"

Lance looked about to proudly refuse, but Todd and Fred gave him pleading, puppy dog looks, and he sighed in frustration. 

"Sure." He mumbled. 

The weather goddess smiled inwardly. She may not be able to take these boys in for good, but as long as they were in her care they would be treated like royalty. And she had heard the sad story of the Maximoff girl; she was set on helping her as well.

"It'll be ready in ten minutes."

~

Seven minutes later, the teens that were so accustomed to eating their meals around a dingy old table were being invited to sit down at a feast that looked positively royal. Todd gaped shamelessly, while Lance stared at the floor. He'd seen spreads like this before in his previous stay with the X-Men. Wanda was nonplussed, and Fred looked on the verge of weeping with joy. 

Slipping into one of the chairs, Todd patted the seat of it curiously. 

"This is velvet, yo!" he cried. 

"Velour." Ororo corrected with a smile. Then, awkwardly, "I'm sorry, Mr. Dukes, but the chairs—"

"No problem." Freddy assured her. "I sit on the floor at home, too. Don't make no difference."

Sure enough, even sitting on his rear Fred could easily reach the table. Todd elbowed Wanda, who was sitting next to him. 

"Very resourceful, huh?"

"Yes," she answered absently. 

She felt a niggling panic in the back of her mind, some kind of dizzying vertigo that wasn't overwhelming but was still there.__

_Pietro, of course._

Of course it was him. At least he was still alive.

Todd's voice broke her thoughts. 

"Do we just help ourselves, then?"

"Sure, man." Scott encouraged. "Dig in."

They all cooperated with surprising efficiency, passing the plates of sandwiches and chips from hand to hand until everyone had been served. The Professor wheeled into the room and to the head of the table to join them, where he helped himself to a turkey sandwich.

Except for the chewing, you could have heard a pin drop. And even then people were chewing as quietly as possible.

"So, uh…" Scott began gamely, but it died before he finished it. 

Chew, chew, chew. 

"S'pose you don't have many silences back at your place." Logan commented. 

"Nope." Todd agreed over a mouthful. "Never a quiet moment with Pietro in the house."

"Man, whenever no one has anything to say at the table," Lance cut in eagerly. "Pietro always told this one joke…!"

"Lance." Wanda growled in warning. 

"C'mon, it's funny!" Fred defended. 

"Tell it," Scott requested. "I wanna hear."

"Okay, okay," Lance took a deep breath before posing this interesting question: "Why is rape impossible?"

"Lance!" Wanda barked. 

Todd was already giggling when the rock tumbler delivered the pun. 

"Because a woman can run faster with her skirt up than a man with his pants down!"

Wanda moaned in defeat and dropped her head into her hands. Scott's mouth popped open into a soundless 'o', Jean blinked in shock, and Evan snorted so unexpectedly that he shot moo juice out of his nose. Todd cackled insanely and Fred chuckled. 

"That was… that was…" the X-Man called Cyclops was at a remarkable loss for words. 

"Interesting." Jean finished with a strained smile.

"I got one." Logan said out of the blue. 

"Huh?" said Todd. 

"Huh?" said Fred. 

"Huh?" said Lance.

"HUH?" said the X-Men. 

"What's the difference between a woman and a light bulb?"

The others glanced at each other nervously before Wolverine answered his own question. 

"You can unscrew a light bulb!"

Lance giggled. Todd giggled. Evan piped up. 

"Hey, I got one! What's the difference between roast beef and pea soup?"

"I dunno!" Todd crowed. "What?"

"Anyone can roast beef!"

There was a long, long moment as they all tried to sort this one out. Suddenly, Professor X guffawed and slapped his forehead in amused disgust. The others followed suit as they all figured it out. Evan smirked proudly. Ororo whacked him on the back of the head playfully.   
  


"Evan Daniels!" she scolded. "Really!"

"Hey!" Jean called out. "I got one!"

Everyone stared at her in horror, and she busted out laughing. 

"I'm sorry, I just had to say that! The looks on your faces!"

Scott nudged the redhead, while Wanda finally peeked out from the refuge of her fingers with a tiny smile on her face. 

~


	19. Follow the Leader

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Eek! It's December! That means Christmas is… soon… I'm so happy! That means our local lite rock radio station is now playing Christmas music 24/7! And that means I can hear 'Feliz Navidad' to my heart's content!

*ahem*

So yes. I'm SO bad at updating. But I need to promise you all now: this story will never die. Ever. I may be slow at updating, but it will never die until it is over and has a definite ending plus epilogue. ^_^

So now. ANGST. Ten points to anyone who KNOWS where Pietro's little song is from, and as for the next chapter, it will be in ROGUE'S POV! Yay! 

~

Put one foot in front of the other. 

Isn't that a song?

Yes, something to focus on. 

Put one foot in front of the other and… then… you'll be walking 'cross the floor…

Tiny claymation figures danced and sang the ridiculous little song in Pietro's head, swaying and laughing and shuffling through snow. It was one of those old Christmas specials. But which? Which which which which ha ha ha… 

He paused on the road, stiff, listening. 

He heard laughter. 

It wasn't him that heard it, of course. He was hearing it through Wanda. Part of him was wounded that they could be having such a good time without him, but the majority of him was glad that his sister would have a chance to laugh. 

If, that is, they could crack through her shell.

The laughter stopped, just a brief burst of sound and then that same unnatural silence. 

Damn. 

A thousand clips of songs raced through his head in an instant, but he managed to snatch out the right one and chanted it softly to himself as he shuffled down the lonely winter road.__

_"Put one foot in front of the other and… soon you'll be… walking out the door…"_

~

Laughter always fades away. The joke suddenly seems not that funny, or the situation becomes too grim to keep chuckling like an idiot. 

Scott stopped first. He abruptly realized just whom exactly he was laughing with and why they were here, and it just wasn't as humorous as it had been. His facial expression became neutral and he took a bite from his sandwich like it was the most important thing in the world. 

Jean followed suit, naturally, and once the Professor sensed their grimness his own smile died away. Everyone else pretty much stopped laughing at the same instant, save for Todd, who took a sharp nudge from Freddy before he quieted down. 

Someone cleared their throat. No eye contact was made. 

Then there was a screeching sound as Rogue shoved her chair away from the table and stalked from the room, torn between two worlds. 

Lance and Scott rose to pursue her at the same time, and while the Brotherhood leader managed to take off, Scott found his arm being snagged by Jean, who dragged him back down into his seat with a hiss of "It's not your place!"

Todd and Fred stared after their leader and former teammates, while Wanda had closed her hands about her eyes again and saw only darkness. 

~

"Rogue! Wait up!"

She had wanted Logan to follow her. Maybe even the Professor. Hell, she would've rather let Jean comfort her now. Instead, she heard Lance's voice calling after her, spurring her to walk faster. 

"Hey! Rogue! Stop!"

Heavy footsteps accelerated, bringing him in front of her. She tried to dart around him, but he caught her upper arms and stopped her in her tracks, forcing her to meet his eyes. 

"What's wrong?" he probed gently. 

She glanced away from him guiltily, unsure how to explain this… this… turmoil. He tried again, using some nickname of hers that he remembered from her Brotherhood days. 

"C'mon, Rogue," he chided. "What could possibly be bothering the Belle of Bayville?"

Half a sob, half a laugh, the sound that came out of her was a welcome show of emotion. Both of them pointedly avoided the fact that it was Pietro who had given her that nickname. Instead, she sighed and relaxed in his grip.

"It's… well, it's just that…" Searching for words, she was finding none. "It feels so strange to be with both of you, the X-Men and the Brotherhood… ya gotta understand, when I left you guys it was either/or, and I was sure I would never get to talk to you again without fighting you."

"Which you haven't."

"But now I am!" she persisted, frustrated. "And I wasn't ready for this. I don't know how I should act. I don't know if they'll be mad at me if I get too familiar with you guys. But I don't want you boys to be hurt, neither, cause I really do care for ya'll. You were my first brothers."

"And you were our sister."

"Yeah, well, you got a new sister now."

"Hey, it's not a single position. We'll always have room for you, Rogue, if you want to come back."

"Sometimes…" she confessed softly. "I want nothing more than to be able to do that."

"So why don't you?" he cried, delighted. "We'd be happy to have you and—"

"But I can't, Lance! I can't! If I turned my back on the X-Men now, after all they've done for me, what would that look like? I don't want to be branded as a traitor. I can't imagine how it would be to live like that, with everyone afraid of me running off again. It just wouldn't be worth it. I could never go back to them after something like that."

"Pietro came back to us."

Even as he said it, Lance realized how brave Pietro had been to return to his brothers, even when they were all sure to hate him like they did. He could have stayed with his new teammates, but as the speedster himself had once commented, they were all "too scary, too big, too insane, or too damn cocky to stand". 

Pietro had known where he belonged, and he had walked through the fire of their initial fury to get back to them. That took guts.

Seeing the distant look in his eye, Rogue brought him back to the present with a gloved pat on the cheek. 

"Hey, Lance?" she said softly. "You there?"

"Hmm?" He shook his head to clear it. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm here."__

_I think. _

But these last two words of doubt he kept in his own private thoughts, forcing on his best grin for her. 

"I'm the leader," he reminded her. "And it's my job to protect my teammates. All of them." Running a hand through her hair, he added, "And that includes you."

She smiled faintly, gratefully, and he kissed her fingertips with brotherly affection. 

"That's my girl," he grinned.

"You big goof." She nudged him. "How could anyone keep up a good sulk around you?"

"Well, when we're out of food, you'd be surprised how resilient Fred is to my witty charms."

Laughter. He turned to go back to the dining room, but she lingered back. 

"You coming?"

"Yeah." She lied. "I'll be right there."

He nodded and disappeared through the doorway. With his back turned, he didn't see her grimace and touch a hand to her temple.

~

However, in the dining room, all was not order. Lance entered and found everyone sitting in uncomfortable silence, while at the same time he felt the waves of energy roiling off a peeved telepath. Jean was eating with stiff, angry movements while Scott was just sitting there, staring at the table. 

Finally, Jean excused herself politely and strolled from the room. Scott gave the Professor a brief look, searching for something, and not finding it he, too, left the group in the same direction. 

Logan chuckled gruffly. 

"All right, who's the next couple to bolt?"

Wanda herself had been considering a hasty exit, but at this point Todd would probably have chased after her for the couple aspect. She settled for slumping crossly in her seat.

~

Out in the hall, Jean spun on Scott with an impatient, "What?"

"You were way outta line back there, Jean." He said, and would have continued had not she interrupted him. 

"No, Scott, I think you were the one out of line. It wasn't your place to chase after them."

"But I'm supposed to be the leader! And the leader is supposed to protect his teammates!"

"Protect? Protect from what? Lance? He wanted to help her!"

"It's not his choice anymore. She's an X-Man, she has us now."

"Did it ever occur to you that she might actually like those boys?"

He was about to fire off a retort but he was suddenly silenced. Actually, it hadn't occurred to him, but he would never admit it. Instead, he flailed for an excuse. 

"If she likes them so much, why is she with us?"

"Scott, you were there! How can you not understand it from her point of view? She had just found out how she had been tricked and lied to! I would have switched sides too!"

"Still, she hasn't talked to these guys in months, except to fight with them. Where did you find the idea that it was Lance she wanted to talk to now?"

"Why else would she have left the table?"

Again, Scott was stumped. He summoned up a thousand different reasons, but none of them valid or suiting the present situation. 

"Look, Jean," he said at last. "I know you mean well, but these guys… these guys are—"

"What? What's so wrong with them, Scott? They're bad? They're mean? They're a couple of kids that got offered an easy way out of whatever hellhole they were living in and took it?"

"No, it's just—"

"You don't even know, do you, Scott? You're set against them because you don't know how else to react. That sounds pretty bigoted to me."

"Fine!" He exploded. "You tell me how to act around the guys I've been fighting ever since I met them! Want me to curtsy, offer them some tea and crumpets?"

"Don't be ridiculous." She hissed. "I just wish you could find it in yourself to treat them with a little civility."

"Fine." He repeated darkly.

"Fine!" she echoed, aware of the immaturity and not caring. "I'm going upstairs."

She swept away, leaving him standing there with his arms crossed and a deep frown on his face. 

~


	20. Two's a Crowd

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.   
  


Author's Notes: Oy. Could I be any worse about updating? Still, I have a legitimate excuse this time, what with the family Christmas parties and social gatherings and all. I got cool things for Christmas. Yay.  
  


On the subject of Scott- I am SO glad that everyone liked his characterization in the last chapter. If you watch the show, he really does get like that when the BH is around, so with them in his house I figured he'd really uppity.  
  


On the subject of Rietro- This fic is not a romance fic. The most romantic thing that will happen pretty much already has, and it was that Lance/Wanda scene. Other pairings with be canonical, including Jean/Scott, maybe some one-sided Todd/Wanda (admit it, the little dude's obsessed). Otherwise, Pietro will be paired with no one, and I'm afraid the Kitty/Lance tension will be nil. They never worked for me as a couple.  
  


Kickassangel- I watch the 'Justice League' every once in a while, but I wish I'd seen that episode. Sounds absolutely rocking.

Kyrene- I know it looks like nobody is helping Pietro. But really, McCoy is down in the lab working his furry little butt off on all sorts of medical things. We'll get some more scientifical things with him in a few chapters.  
  


A pair of people came CLOSE to naming the location of Pietro's ditty last chapter, and they were Amarth Obstreperous and Kapparan Majic.   
  


However, the winner was Gerri, who actually named the source as "Santa Claus is Coming to Town". Ten points for her. *applause*   
  


Now, on to the chapter from Rogue's POV. Keep in mind that this is set before 'Self-Possessed'.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~  
  


Stomping up the stairs and into my room, I flop down on my bed and push Lance as far out of my thoughts as possible.   
  


I try to remind myself that he just wants to help me.   
  


They all want to help me. They don't want me to feel as lonely as I do, to feel as sad as I do, and all the other things that you're really not allowed to feel when you're living in the lap of luxury.   
  


It's all for my own good.   
  


And of course, as soon as that sentence passes through my mind, so does he.   
  


A voice says calmly, "This is for your own good. Trust me." There's the burning sensation of a needle in my arm. I'm running and running and running. "Trust me." "Daddy, you're hurting him!" "Trust me." Needle. "This is for your own good."  
  


That bastard.   
  


I touched Pietro once. Once was all I could probably ever handle in my lifetime.   
  


When I touched him, it was like something that had never happened before. Usually when I make skin contact with someone, I have to drag their memories and thoughts out of them. It's a painful process, but it's natural for them to resist. But with Pietro, the moment I touched him, it was more agonizing than anything I'd ever felt before.   
  


His thoughts came racing at me at a hundred miles an hour. Rather than me sucking his brain dry by force, he ran to me, he drained himself into me. I felt the overwhelming sensation of relief, relief from him, relief from all the serious trouble he'd been packing in his head.   
  


I guess he's kind of like a reservoir that got way too full, so he had to release the pressure somehow. I don't like to think about what might have happened to him if I hadn't stepped in. Maybe he would have exploded.   
  


Now I'm talking nonsense again. It's not that odd for me to start going on and on like a crazy person.   
  


See, he never left.  
  


Most of the other people I absorbed just kind of linger in the back of my mind, phantoms, shadows, never bothering me. But with that rush of information, it's like a little piece of Pietro came into me, and I can't get rid of it.   
  


I have nightmares whenever I go to sleep.   
  


I see a horse running down an endless racetrack. The rider has a helmet pulled low over his eyes and I can't see him. It's the horse I'm concerned about. It's running and running and it just looks exhausted. It can't breathe properly, and it has foam slathered down it's sides. It's running for a finish line it can't see. And then suddenly, I'm the horse, and the rider is so heavy and I can't get any air and my legs are on fire and I feel like I'm going to burst.   
  


This isn't my nightmare.   
  


It's his.   
  


Sometimes I hear his voice. Once, he was screaming. Another, he was talking in a slow dead voice, and I couldn't understand what he was saying. But most of the time, he's crying.  
  


He's not actually alive and breathing inside my head. These are his memories. Memories that he shoved off and into me when he couldn't take it anymore.   
  


I remember one night I dreamt I was walking down a long and empty hall, and I heard him crying somewhere, somewhere far away. I started walking faster to see if I could find him and help him. Eventually, I did find him. It was in a girl's room, a room with a 'W' monogram on the pillow. He was holding the pillow and crying. In this memory, he must have been about five years old.   
  


He looked at me out of wet blue eyes and said, "Please bring her back to me."  
  


Then I woke up. I wanted to tell the Professor about it, but I was afraid. I thought... well, I don't know what I thought. But something in me wanted to keep it private. I guess I kind of respected Pietro. Wanted him to have his privacy and all.   
  


Last night, I had the same dream.   
  


Except this time, when I got to the room, he was sixteen. He was just like the last time I'd seen him in the back of the armored car, but he was still holding that pillow and had the same look of lost hopelessness in his eyes. He stared right at me and said, "Please bring her back to me."  
  


You never grew up, did you, Pietro?   
  


No matter how hard you try, you're still trapped as a scared little five year old, waiting for someone to come back who still hasn't. Maybe she never will. I don't even know who 'she' is.   
  


And yet I do. I've met her. I saw her in the living room. She was sitting next to Lance. And in the back of my head, I felt a surge of joy, while at the same time some kind of wail of sorrow.   
  


She still hasn't come back to him. He's still waiting for her.   
  


I feel really bad for Pietro sometimes. He's a lot like me, really.   
  


Everyone expects him to be this big tough hotshot. This cocky, arrogant, untouchable guy that doesn't let anything in the least bit bother him. Nothing can ruffle his feathers, nothing can make him crack. And when he lets a little bit of weakness show through, he's scorned for it.   
  


That's me.   
  


Everyone expects me to be this tough who-gives-a-damn kind of gal who never lets anything get to her. No one can hurt me, no one can make me cry.   
  


But that's just not true, is it?  
  


Not for me, and not for him.  
  


There's no one for me to talk to about it. No one I can confess my weakness to without fear of it being made a widespread fact. And let me tell you, ninety percent of the time I'm grateful for my iron exterior. It keeps people away. No one comes to me with their problems, no one expects me to care.   
  


The Pietro in my head agrees with me on that one, and I know that's why he's such a jerk, too.   
  


But then there's that other ten percent of the time...  
  


Those are the times when I'm lonely. When I wish someone would listen to me talk, someone would comfort me. Times like that I wish I could just cry my eyes out and no one would be nervous or annoyed. 

I wish I could have gotten to know Pietro better. We would have got along great, I bet. He was only with the Brotherhood a short while before I... well, before I ran off.   
  


Dammit, here come the tears again. But I won't let them out; I'll keep them tight in my eyes by squeezing them shut.   
  


How come life has to be so full of decisions?   
  


I hate making decisions. Especially because all the big decisions I have to make usually end up hurting someone or another. Someone I care about. Someone I love.   
  


Like the boys.   
  


I'd never had brothers before. Then all of a sudden, I had four. Sure, I pretended not to like them. I don't think they're ever gonna know how much they meant to me in those early days. I was lost and confused and just about the loneliest person the world has ever seen.   
  


Then I met a bunch of guys who were just as lost and confused as me. Those emotions stayed, but the loneliness left. They all tried to hide their fear and vulnerability, but I saw theirs, just like they saw mine.   
  


There was an unspoken agreement among us. No one would ever pick on their brother. We got enough of that in school, from the normal people. We didn't need it from each other.   
  


I can remember how I met all of them.   
  


The first one I met was Todd. It was when I first got to that dusty old house. He was eating PopTarts, and when I came in the door he started hooting and making catcalls. I guess someone else would have killed him. But no one had even hinted that I looked pretty before, let alone appreciated it so loudly. I just glared at him and he shut up. We ended up watching a 'Star Wars' marathon on TV together.   
  


Lance came next. He'd been in his room when I first got there, so I didn't meet him until breakfast. He was grumpy and about as ornery as they come, but I liked it. Reminded me of myself in the morning. We spoke very little but already he was the leader.   
  


Freddy I met in a rather compromising situation. That is to say, he was being kinda rough and tough with a certain redhead, and I felt like I ought to step in and do something. Naturally Fred wasn't too thrilled by this, so I ended up throwing him around a bit. Then I came home, and he was there, so it was awkward. He was too depressed to be angry, though, and I was too tired. We ended up reconciling over a bag of Oreos.   
  


Pietro came last. He came to the house after me, and he crashed into our lives like a hurricane. I hated him at first, because he seemed too confident and proud to be in a group of misfits like us.   
  


He took some warming up to, but every shell can be cracked. Mine was cracked, so I figured I could crack his. I ended up cornering him in the kitchen and demanding to know why he was here. He laughed at me and said he liked my spunk. I told him that was the most cliched thing I'd ever heard. He said that was the point.   
  


So yeah. We all got used to him eventually. I thought he was going to usurp Lance at first, I really did, but he ended up being content to be second fiddle. Lance could be the leader, but Pietro would always be the brains of the outfit.   
  


And just when we were all getting nice and comfortable with each other, I bolted.   
  


I didn't plan to, I really didn't. But so much happened... after seeing the way Mystique had tricked me, fooled me, lied to me, I didn't really see any other way out. So I went with the X-Men.   
  


I kind of wanted to quit. And even when I didn't, I really wanted to go see the boys and apologize and say goodbye and stuff. Thing is, I just couldn't get up the guts to go. I was afraid they'd be mad, or worse, hurt.  
  


I hurt people without meaning to.   
  


It's just like my mutant power. When I touch people physically, I hurt them. When I touch people emotionally, I hurt them too. I really don't want to, but it happens. I'm just about the worst person you could ever be friends with.   
  


A tear escapes my eye and hits the pillow, despite all my valiant efforts to hold it in.   
  


With these feelings of self-loathing, Pietro returns. You wouldn't ever associate him with self-loathing, him being such an egotistical jerk and all, but he really hates himself. At least, he does when he's talking to me. Or his memories, anyway.   
  


In flashes of lightning, the voice soothes, "It's for your own good." A little girl screams, "Daddy, you're hurting him!" The needle spikes my arm. Running, running, "Trust me." "Trust me." "Trust me." "Trust me."   
  


I winch and touch my temple again, lightly so as not to shake up my rattled brain too much.   
  


Go away, Pietro, please.   
  


Please.   
  


I can't handle your problems. I have way too many problems of my own. I don't need your nightmares, I don't need to find you in that lonely room waiting for someone who's never gonna come for you. You're lost, Pietro, and so am I.   
  


I can't help you. 

I wish I could, Pietro, I really do. I wish someone could help you. But you're just... you can't be saved. You're too far gone. And I can't let you drag me down with you. I need to live.  
  


I remember a long time ago, I almost looked up to you. I wanted to be just as tough and aloof and untouchable.   
  


Now I see that it's exactly those qualitites that have been tearing you apart.   
  


No one should be expected to be like this. No one should be expected to be calm in the face of everything, nonplused by everything, emotions tidily locked away where they can never be hurt again.   
  


I tried to do it. But slowly, I'm giving it up. Maybe I can edge back into humanity and reclaim myself.   
  


You can't give it up, can you, Pietro? And now it might be too late to ever ask for forgiveness, to ever change your ways.   
  


I hope I don't end up like you.   
  


But I wish you'd leave me alone.   
  


It's crowded enough in my head without you bringing your troubles to me every night.   
  


~


	21. Interlude

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

  


Author's Notes: Is there any way to apologize to you guys? I am SO bad about updating this story, and I'm genuinely ashamed for being such a lazy little writer. Bad, monkey, bad! No banana! Somebody slap my wrists already! Better yet, hit me with a wet noodle a couple of times.

  


Actually, my angst muse had gone a'wanderin', and he has taken some time to recover. I had to watch 'Edward Scissorhands' two nights in a row before I could find him again. 

  


And yes, Calamari Rings, the last chapter was s-h-a-m-e-l-e-s-s-l-y idealistic. I have wild, crazy ideas about Rogue's stay with the BH, most of which involve happy slappy sibling type bonding. Canonically incorrect and how. Indulge me, mes enfants. And this story is set before Self-Possessed, because I wanted Pietro haunting Rogue still.

  


Yeah, actually, the last chapter was my least favorite ever. I didn't care for it at all, so no wonder nobody reviewed. Well! It gets better and better from here on in! 

  


Mad props to ChaosTheory, who tracked me down in the LOTR section and ordered me to update this or suffer the consequences. Flogging. Ouchiewawa. 

  


~

He scaled the fence with the same ease he did it with months ago. 

  


That time, he'd been on a mission from Mystique. A paying job, nothing more, really just something to fill up some spare time with, with a hint of espionage on the side on dear father's behalf. 

  


This time, however, his motivations were purely personal. 

  


Wanda was in there.

  


He paused on the path up to the mansion's front door, listening, tense. If anyone could have seen him, they would have seen a frightened little boy terrified of the dark, or maybe a wild animal that knows there's a hunter around but just can't see it. 

  


The air pulsed with something ominous, and Pietro shivered against it. 

  


He let himself into the mansion, closing the door behind him quietly and then laughing bitterly because who the hell was going to hear it anyway? The hallways felt huge and echoing, like a mummy's tomb, and he walked on ginger steps to the kitchen.

  


The remains of the preparation for a huge lunch lay scattered about. Storm was at the sink, rinsing out her glass. Absently, he noticed his hunger and helped himself to what started out as a few bites, but ended up being the makings of at least four sandwiches. Sated for now, he continued his prowl into the dining room. 

  


There were a few empty chairs here and there, as though people had suddenly vacated the area. The geek patrol was strangely absent, save for the professor, Wolverine, and Evan Daniels. 

  


He saw his family sitting with them. 

  


Fred, with a sandwich still en route to his mouth. Lance, just sitting down, returning from some conversation he'd been having in the hall. Todd, staring at his plate in what must have been the thickness of an uncomfortable silence. 

  


And Wanda.

  


He rushed over to her, even started to call her name before biting down on his eager tongue. 

  


//She can't hear you.// he scolded himself. //No one can hear you.//

  


Still, he knelt next to her, studying her face. She looked sad, very sad, sadder than he'd expected her to be. Sure, they'd patched some things up in the kitchen last night, but he hadn't expected his disappearance to affect her so deeply. It filled him with gratitude and his eyes stung with unshed tears.

  


//She cares.//

  


Standing up and coughing self-consciously, he felt suddenly embarrassed that Wolverine or Professor Xavier, or even worse, Daniels, had seen his little emotional scene. But all remained perfectly frozen, mannequins in store windows. 

  


Yet the Professor's eyes seemed shockingly clear, after all the zombies he had seen in the city.

  


Unnerved by this, he crept out of the dining room to explore the rest of the silent house.

  


~

"Pietro is here."

  


Wanda glanced up so suddenly from her plate that her teeth clacked together. It was the Professor who had spoken, and his eyes were focused on some distant point just over her shoulder. She spun around joyfully, and felt her heart hit rock bottom when there was no one there. 

  


"He was here." Xavier continued quietly. "But only for a moment. He is, however, still in the mansion."

  


"That's creepy, yo..." Todd muttered, half to himself. 

  


"It is not 'creepy', Mr. Tolensky," the professor smiled. "It is my gift. I felt him. He has a very powerful presence, not unlike his father." Realizing a potential error, he hurriedly smoothed away the last remark. "Perhaps we will be finding signs of him around the place very soon."

  


"Really?" Todd lit up. "Like what?"

  


"I think I'm going mad..."

  


Everyone glanced up as Ororo entered from the kitchen, a hand pressed to her temple and her eyes full of confusion.

  


"What's a matter, 'Ro?" Logan wondered. "Ya look like you've seen ghost."

  


"Perhaps I have," she mused, seating herself. At the curious looks from the others, she explained. "I was in the kitchen rinsing out my glass to put in the dishwasher. Now, when I went in, I distinctly noticed that there were plenty of leftovers. But when I turned to look at them not five seconds later, at least three-quarters of the food was gone! I don't understand it!"

  


"I believe that answers your question, Todd," said the professor.

  


"What question?" Ororo asked. 

  


"Pietro's in the mansion." Charles said. "He must have helped himself to some lunch."

  


"That's what I would do," reasoned Freddy.

  


Wanda stifled a sound behind her hand, half a sob of relief, half a peal of laughter at the idea of Pietro in one piece, standing right behind her only a second ago. She had felt him too, though she had assumed it was just wishful thinking. But no, he had definitely been there, looking right at her. She knew. Somewhere in her subconscious, she had even seen him, and this made her glad. 

  


"I'm going to go see how Hank is doing," Xavier announced. "Logan?"

  


The man known as Wolverine nodded and followed the Professor, as the two departed the dining room and headed for the lower levels and the medical laboratories, where Hank McCoy was hard at work.

  


This left Ororo and Evan alone with the Brotherhood, who immediately began to talk amongst themselves as if they weren't there.

  


"This is great!" Todd was saying enthusiastically. "Pietro's here!"

  


"I wish we could at least see him," said Lance sadly. "It sucks knowing he needs us and we can't help."

  


"That does suck!" Fred frowned. "It really sucks! I never thought about it."

  


"I mean, yeah!" Lance went on. "Whenever someone's sick or hurt or something, they're usually right in front of you, and even if you can't actually help them, you can comfort them and talk to them and stuff."

  


"But he's here." Wanda pointed out quietly. "I think it was help enough for him to see us, to know we're looking for him."

  


"Of course we're looking for him!" Todd scolded. "Who wouldn't? He's our brother!" 

  


"Yeah, he'd look for us!" Fred agreed.

  


At this point, Evan, who had been listening with a growing look of guilt and anger on his face, shoved his chair back from the table and bolted from the room.

  


"Evan!" Ororo called after him, but she got no response.

  


"What's eating him?" Lance wondered. 

  


Because true to form, Pietro had never told them anything about once having a friendship with an X-Man.

  


~

  


Out in the hallway, Evan almost collided with a brooding Scott, who was leaning against the wall and looking very pissed. 

  


"Sorry, man," The younger boy hastily apologized. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

  


"And I didn't see you coming," Scott pointed out, struggling to return to his usual supportive role. "What's wrong? You look upset."

  


"No shit, Sherlock." Evan muttered.

  


On closer look, Scott noticed that he looked more than just upset. He looked guilty and frustrated and not a little bit jumpy. Evan, too, noticed that Scott looked more than pissed. He looked guilty and frustrated and not a little bit jumpy. 

  


"So, what happened?" They asked simultaneously, and both drifted into the same nervous laughter. 

  


"You go first." Evan blurted out, before the other teen could beat him to it.

  


"Ah, Jean and I had a fight." confessed Scott at last, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. 

  


"You and Jean?" He couldn't hide the surprise in his voice. "The perfect couple? A fight?"

  


"Not really a fight," The older teen corrected himself. "More of just a disagreement. Not seeing things eye to eye, that kind of thing."

  


"Dare I ask what the fight-- excuse me, disagreement-- was about?"

  


"The Brotherhood."

  


"Big shocker there, man."

  


"It's just... well, I guess it's... augh! I don't know."

  


Scott seemed genuinely furious with himself, and Evan thumped his shoulder reassuringly. 

  


"Hey, it's okay, man. I'm pretty screwed up about this too."

  


"It's just, as long as I've known them, they've been the enemy, you know? Even when they were helping us fight Magneto back with the whole Sentinel thing, it turned out just to be a plot of Mystique's. I've never once known these guys to be trust-worthy! I mean, how do know this isn't just some kind of crazy plot to infiltrate the mansion? Where's the proof that Pietro's actually in trouble?"

  


"Well, if it's any help, the Prof said just a second ago that he felt Pietro in the room, and we couldn't see him. Then Auntie O said that some of the food in the kitchen had been snatched up in like, a second. We think that was Pietro, too."

  


For a moment, Scott just kind of stared at him, his mouth slightly ajar in mid-rant and curtailed by this new revelation. Then he just started laughing, laughing with relief, laughing just for the sheer emotional release of it all. 

  


"That settles it, I guess," he managed to say at last. "Remind me to go apologize to Jean later, I owe her big time."

  


"Maybe you can make it up to her with a date."

  


"Shut up!"

  


Scott nudged his companion warmly, but felt a surge of leader's concern when he noticed that Evan still seemed weighted down by some sort of secret burden. 

  


"You okay?" he probed. 

  


"Yeah..." said Evan automatically, but with a sigh he admitted, "No."

  


"Spill." Scott said. "And I swear your secret's safe with me."

  


"That's really great, man," the younger boy said with real gratitude. "Okay, so it's this whole Pietro thing..."

  


~


	22. Damn Cold Night

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. I do not own the song lyrics. 

Author's Notes: *gasp!* What's this? A fairly punctual update of MP?? The gods must be crazy! Or maybe Phantom is just feeling so gosh darn hunky dory that she decided to share the love with her readers. A first for this chapter: a song! Or rather, song lyrics. They help set the mood, I think. For those who don't like it, don't worry, this won't become a trend. It just works here. And I hope I do a good job with Evan, here; I've really written for him before. 

And guess what? I changed the summary, because I realized that this story is really about how everyone sees/connects with Pietro. Isn't that interesting? 

~

The same deathly silence filled the whole mansion. 

It was even worse indoors. When outside, he could at least see the sky. Inside, however, it felt as though the walls were closing in, and he crept through the long hallways with caution born of terror.

Pietro had never really been inside the mansion. Yes, he had infiltrated it in the past, and he had been in the lower levels with the X-Men for a brief period of time. But on the whole, he had never been able to know what it was like inside, how it was decorated, how big it was. 

It was bigger than he'd thought it would be. 

The decorating, however, was exactly as he'd pictured it. Beautiful paintings on the walls, priceless vases and statues, all sorts of fancy crap like that. It was comforting, really, seeing all these things that he'd imagined. 

His wandering carried him into the more fitness-related areas of the place. A gym, a room of various exercise equipment. Wandering among the Stair Masters and the rowing machines, he suddenly froze. 

Breath hitched in his throat, eyes widened in inexplicable panic as he stared in fixation at what he'd found. 

A treadmill. 

Flashes of lightning split his brain, images rocketing around inside his mind, memories so buried in repression and denial that it literally threw him off balance. 

Running, running, running, running, running, running, running...

And the man watching him, studying him, writing things down on that damn clipboard to prepare for tomorrow.

He clenched his eyes shut against the tears of fear and childish terror, but when his eyes flew open again they were full of fury and hate. 

With an animal scream, he threw himself at the treadmill and began to rip at it in a savage frenzy. The superspeed gave him added strength, and he felt the thick rubber tread tearing under his hands. Handles snapped off and were driven through the control panel. It was thrown on it's side, and he jumped on it until the base of the machine cracked down the middle. 

Ripping tearing slashing hitting screaming ripping pounding breaking smashing bastard bastard bastard bastard!!!

He stumbled away from it, flattening himself into a corner and sinking to the floor. Knees drawn up to his chest, he hugged them and buried his face in his arms, weeping hysterically like a child trapped in a nightmare. 

Smoke began to drift from the wreckage of the treadmill.

~

Evan fell silent, and Scott felt on the verge of saying something, but quickly hushed himself. Best to let his teammate get through this on his own. 

"All right," Evan continued, bolstering his courage. "So they're all in there talking about him and how great he is, how much they miss him, blah blah blah. And then they start going all, 'he knows we're looking for him' and 'why wouldn't we, we're his brothers', and all that stuff."

He broke off again, and this time Scott sensed that he was waiting for an urging to go on. 

"Well, yeah," he said awkwardly. "They're pretty close, I guess. What's up?"

"Okay." Evan took a deep breath, steeling himself against some phantom memory that he was now waking from the dead. "The first time I met Pietro, I thought he was a total freak."

//Big surprise.// Scott thought, but this he kept to himself.

"I mean, we lived in a mostly black neighborhood, not dirt poor or nothing, but certainly not the upper crust. And I'd always known the Allens, the couple that lived down the street, were thinking of adopting. And they were white people, so I guess I should have known that they'd adopt a white kid. Still, Pietro was something else.

You've seen the guy, right? Course you have. He's gotta be, like, the whitest guy in history. Some kind of albino, I guess, with that pale skin and that white, white hair. And in this neighborhood, he just stuck out like Scooby-Doo at a pedigreed dog show.

The first day I saw him, he was getting out of their car for the first time. I was in the front yard shooting some hoops, and that's why I was outside. Anyway, I was about nine, and I see this scrawny little white kid getting out of the Allens' car. I knew they must've adopted him, but I couldn't see why anyone would have taken him in. 

He was this skinny, sick looking little guy with the saddest eyes I'd ever seen. Even as a kid I could see how ripped up he was, and he kinda reminded me of something you'd buy at a garage sale, some crappy old piece of china that's all faded and cracked and useless. He was holding a little suitcase, and he turned and looked at me. I waved at him, and he just looked so confused by that. He didn't wave back."

"So you guys met when you were nine?" Scott cocked his head. "I always assumed you'd known each other longer."

"Yeah, well, I was nine, and he was... I think he was eleven. Older than me, anyway. And it only feels like we've known each other for longer. See, my mom sent me over to introduce myself, to be polite and all that, and Mrs. Allen answered the door. I asked her if I could talk to her new boy, and she was all, 'oh, goodness, yes!' She was a real happy lady, see, and it's a shame none of that ever rubbed off on Pietro. Anyway.

So I go upstairs to his room, and he's sitting right smack in the middle of this huge bed. He looked right at me again, and he waved."

"No kidding?" Scott chuckled. "I'd say that was cute if you were talking about anyone else."

"Yeah," Evan laughed, a bit wistfully. "Me too. I hardly thought Pietro was cute, though. Kinda pathetic was more how I saw him. He was weak and helpless, or at least, that's what I figured. Looking back, I guess it wasn't so much a physical weakness as it was that he was just all torn up inside. Still is, really, only now he hides it better. He used to get beat up a lot."

"Beat up?"

"Seriously trashed, man. Once a week, at least, I'd see him shuffling home with a bloody nose or a black eye. Sometimes it was worse. One time, these guys kept smashing his head into the sidewalk after they knocked him down. His face was just covered in blood. I used to have nightmares about it, too."

"Man. I'd never have pegged Maximoff as the type who'd let that happen to him."

"He was messed up, man! Something was seriously wrong with him. He just didn't seem... I don't know, connected. Like he'd been living in a dream his whole life, and was just getting dropped into reality. Or maybe living in a nightmare, and then waking up from it. I used to overhear my parents talking, and my mom was convinced that he must've been abused or raped or something, he was such a.... how'd she put it? 'Damaged child'."

"Damaged."

"Damaged, yeah. So anyway, this one time I was walking from the bus stop to home, and I saw it happening across the street. Pietro had these two kids following him, and somehow I knew that if he had wanted to, he could have run away. But he didn't. They caught up to him and threw him down, and they were trying to take his backpack. I got really angry, especially since these kids were like twice his size and he didn't stand a chance. 

Now, I was kinda big for my age, so I went stomping across the street like a bat out of hell, and I came right up to him and said something like, uh, I can't remember. It was like, "hey, knock it off, you jerks!", or something lame like that. Whatever it was, it worked, or at least the sight of me pounding my fist into my palm worked."

"Talk about motivation."

"Ha! Motivation. So these guys go running off, and I bend down to help Pietro up, 'cause he's just sitting there covering his head so they can't hit his face. On his feet, though, I saw that he was as tall as me, way taller than I thought he was, and I realized he could have taken those guys out if he'd wanted to. I said, "hey, man, what gives? You could've trashed those suckers!" And he just said, "I could've, but you did"."

"Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"Whatever! It was crazy. The second I let him at me, he just attached himself to me like a needy remora. The weird thing was, I was liking him back, as a friend, and pretty soon we were doing everything together. We started getting competitive, and it was all great. A really fun friendship, if I've ever been in one."

"So what happened? And this is great and all, but how'd all that 'looking for a brother' stuff get under your skin?"

"Yeah. That."

Evan suddenly grew quiet, and upon looking closer Scott could see tears building in his eyes that he was doing his best to furiously hold in. His hands were shaking, and he clenched them in fists.

"So this one time, he was fifteen, I was thirteen, we were hanging out. He was gonna spend the night at my house. We stayed up late watching movies, all that shit. We watched this one movie, uh, 'The Deer Hunter'. I hated it, man. Really boring brotherly bonding crap. Didn't give it a second thought. We both went to sleep, and I remember I had this really horrible nightmare where Pietro shot himself in the head and I was trying to hold in his brains with my bare hands. I woke up and my hands were all sticky, but it was just sweat. 

So I, uh, I start looking around for Pietro, you know, 'cause I'm all nervous and stuff. He's not there. I ran all over the house looking for him, and then I saw that the front door was open, and I really freaked. I ran out into the street, and it was like, three o'clock in the morning, and somehow I knew exactly where he'd be and I ran straight to the nearest overpass."

"Was he there?" Scott said in a soft voice, probing Evan gently as the younger boy suddenly broke off and bit his knuckles against a choking sob. 

"Yes. He was there. He was standing on the railing looking out on the highway, watching all the semi trucks go past underneath him. Just wearing a hooded sweatshirt and his jeans, and his bare feet looked really cold and dead walking on the metal railing, and his hands were clutching the nearest lamppost. I almost had a heart attack, man, seeing him walking up there.

I called his name real quietly, and I don't think he heard me. I tried again, and that time he looked right at me with these wild, desperate eyes. There were... there were tears on his face and he looked like he couldn't believe that I was there. I'll never forget what he said to me. He said... he said... 'you came looking for me'. Like nobody had ever come looking for him before. And I said, 'yeah, man, you're like my brother'. And he hopped off that railing, slumped against it, and started to cry.

We went home together, arms around each others' shoulders, all friends and crap. But the next day, he was different. Like he didn't want to let anyone close to him, ever. He started pushing me away, and I got mad, and as they say, the rest is history."

"Evan..." Scott started, then stopped, then started again. "Evan, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, it's not you fault he's such an ungrateful bastard."

The team leader was at a remarkable loss for words. He bit his lip, he stared at the floor, he made to pat Evan's shoulder and thought better of it, stuffing his hands back in his pockets. 

"I always wondered..." Evan said. "I always wondered what he must've been thinking up there, all alone, before I came. I thought I'd never ever find out. But you know that one song, that one that's like, 'it's a damn cold night', kinda thing?"

"Yeah, I know it."

"I think that's what it must have been like."

There was a long moment of silence. 

"I feel sorry for him." Scott said at last. 

"Yeah..." said Evan hoarsely. "I always did, too."

~

I'm standing on a bridge

I'm waiting in the dark

I thought that you'd be here by now

There's nothing but the rain

No footsteps on the ground

I'm listening but there's no sound

Isn't anyone trying to find me?

Won't someone come take me home?

It's a damn cold night

Tryin' to figure out this life

Won't you take me by the hand

Take me somewhere new

I don't know who you are

But I... I'm with you

I'm with you

I'm looking for a place

I'm searching for a face

Is anybody here I know?

'Cause nothing's going right

And everything's a mess

And no one likes to be alone

Isn't anyone trying to find me?

Won't someone come take me home?

It's a damn cold night

Tryin' to figure out this life

Won't you take me by the hand

Take me somewhere new

I don't know who you are

But I... I'm with you

I'm with you

Oh why is everything so confusing?

Maybe I'm just out of my mind...

~

The thoughtful silence was interrupted by the sound of the front doorbell ringing, and Scott gave an Evan an apologetic smile. 

"I better answer that."

Calling into the kitchen, "I've got it!", he trotted through the hall and to the massive entryway. Jean had been on the way down to answer it as well, and she froze on the stairs, poised like a queen. Scott felt the urge to run to the foot of the steps and start yelling, "STELLAAAAA!", but he silenced it and instead grasped the huge door handle. 

"I wonder who it is," said Jean behind him, and he shrugged, opening it. 

His jaw dropped to the floor. 

A boy about a year older than himself stood there, his flaming orange hair spiked wildly around his head, wearing casual clothes but undeniably familiar. And next to him...

A powerful-looking man, a king by his bearings, with noble, sad eyes and a head of thick white hair. He gazed at Scott levelly and spoke in a deep, sorrowful voice. 

"Where is my son?"

~


	23. Tightrope Walkers

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: *sings at the top of her lungs* It's my fanfic, I'll slack off if I want to!

Seriously, though. I've been so busy you wouldn't believe. My original play just got accepted into the statewide Young Playwright's Festival, so I've been attending rehearsals and writing new drafts like a mad thing. Plus, nobody was liking the story or where it was going (well, I got one particular review), so I went back and rewrote what I had done of this and the next chapter. It went off on a completely different track.. Go figure, eh? 

I would like to remind my readers that this story will at one point or another go off into a tangent from pretty much everyone on the show, just to encompass everyone's opinion of Pietro. How they treat him, how he treats them, how they interact, etcetera. That's why I started this fic. It's character exploration. So even if you don't think anything is actually happening, just savor the characters and their murky depths. Or shallow puddles. Whichever. 

Midgar Demon-- Your review really brightened my day. Thank you so much for the compliments; I do indeed plan on being a writer professionally, and when people encourage me in that direction it just boosts my self-esteem like you wouldn't believe. It also hardens my resolve to be a penniless Bohemian. ^_^

nessie6-- Thank you for being honest and throwing a champagne glass at me for not updating. Know that I dodged the glass and took the meaning to heart. 

Calamari Rings-- Yes, in "The Deer Hunter", several people playing Russian roulette get their brains blown out, and at one point a character does try to hold them in with his bare hands. I don't want to give any spoilers for the movie, but there is a character in it that reminds me VERY much of MP's Pietro. You really should rent/watch it. I love faithful, friendly reviewers like you.

Feirdra-- The song is "I'm With You" by Avril Lavigne. I am not Avril's biggest fan, couldn't be farther from it, but I really like that song, and it worked so well for this fic. 

EVERYONE-- Thank you so much for sticking with this story through thick and thin. I will absolutely do my best to update more frequently. No one gets more upset at lack of updates than I do, I guarantee it. I feel so guilty. But no more! I'll be a good authoress!

~

~

~

Have to get out! Have to get out!

A blind panic suddenly seized Pietro. 

He felt burning hands slapping him in the face, and it seemed to him that a thousand invisible beetles were racing on his skin with their prickly clawed feet.

Scrambling for footing, he half-stumbled, half-crawled out of the exercise room, panting, sobbing, thinking that something was going to drop on him from overhead. 

He scuttled down the hallway and saw Kurt Wagner coming down a set of stairs, minus his image inducer, and in Pietro's starved mind he became some monster leaping from his childhood nightmares, so that the speedster let loose a screech and jumped to his feet, running down the hall, triggering the same nerves he would use to launch into superspeed.

The effect was disastrous. 

His feet gave way from under him, and his momentum sent him flying into a wall. Forehead cracking against the solid wood paneling, he reeled backwards with blood trickling down his face like a burst skin of wine. 

Whole body was short-circuiting.

He fell hard to the floor, staring up at the ceiling in a daze. 

It was the last thing he saw before he blacked out. 

~

Scott's first instinct was to slam the door. 

And he seldom questioned his first instincts.

Slam! 

But a foot clad in a worn sneaker stomped down in the doorframe, and the young man, undoubtedly Pyro, yowled in pain as he prevented a shut-out at the price of getting his own foot smashed by the heavy oak door. 

"Geez, what a crunch!" he muttered. 

But if it had caused him any serious damage, he quickly recovered and proceeded to kick the door open violently, laughing in delight, "Who rang that bell?"

Scott's hand flew to his shades, ready for battle and grateful for the lack of open flames they kept in this house, while also sending a telepathic shout, //Professor! Magneto's here! I need back-up!//

Pyro sprang in the door, landing lightly in front of his opponent as if he were some vicious jungle cat, knocking Scott's hands back to his sides and away from his glasses. He might have done more, if he had not been lifted ten feet into the air by a telekinetic hand. 

Jean crouched on the stairs, hands to her temples, concentrating, and while Pyro flailed overhead, Scott turned his attention to Magneto. The man simply stood there, waiting for something, looking calm and dignified and... searching. It almost looked like he was sensing for something, or more accurately, someone. 

Preparing to blast him away should anything go badly, Scott said in his strongest voice, "What are you doing here?"

"I have told you already, Mr. Summers," he answered icily. "I am looking for my son. And if you stand in my way, I will not hesitate to harm you. I ask you now; is Pietro here?"

Scott kept a blank exterior, but internally fretted. Should he tell Magneto what he wanted? Or wait for back-up?

His own question was answered for him when Logan burst into the entryway, claws extended, ready for battle. 

"Magneto!" he snarled. "Get out of here!"

"If you continue to threaten me," said the older man. "I will show you the idleness and impossibility of your words."

He raised his hands, but before he could rip Logan to pieces in his anger, Charles maneuvered his wheelchair into the room and said sharply, "Logan! Erik! Stop this at once!"

Logan retracted his claws, and Magneto lowered his hands to his sides. Pyro dropped to the floor like a stone, and when Scott glanced at Jean, she shrugged innocently. 

"Charles," Magneto said. "My daughter has told me that Pietro is in danger. He was not at his house, and I have come here only in my search for him. Is he here?"

"He is." said the professor coolly. 

Magneto's brutal mask fell away, to be replaced suddenly by a very human person. A man who was looking for his child, and fearing for his safety. He was Magneto no more, but rather for the moment they saw a fleeting glimpse of Erik Magnus Lensherr, a father.

"Where is he?" he said, voice thick with relief. "Let me see him!"

"He is, at present, trapped in his highest speed," Xavier continued. "So although he may even be in the room with us now, his velocity makes him invisible to the naked eye."

Erik recoiled as if he'd been struck with a physical blow. 

"What happened to him?"

"We were hoping you could tell us." said Logan. 

Eyebrows were raised when Erik's face clouded with guilt, and he stared at the floor in silence. Charles was about to speak, to probe further into the matter, but several other people raced into the room and he was forced to wait.

It was Evan first, but close behind him were Wanda, Lance, and Todd. Out of all of them, she acted first. 

"Father?" she cried in confusion, full of joy and rage at the same time.

She obeyed the first emotion, joy, and rushed to him, throwing her arms around his waist and trying not to weep with relief. The happiness at seeing him was dimmed by the circumstances, also hindered by the phantom memories that she was sure must be imagined nightmares.

Erik looked shocked by this display of affection and simply stood there stiffly, gazing down at the top of her head, uncomprehending. His arms raised awkwardly to enfold her, but they returned to a neutral position, his eyes haunted.

Evan just stood stock-still and stared. He had never seen Magneto face to face, and it chilled him right to the bone. He saw Pietro there, the same eyes, the same nose, but most of all the same power and confidence about him, the same royal way of standing, as though everyone around him was also below him; a mighty lion among mindless sheep.

Todd cowered back behind Lance, who was furious and fearful. Both of them remained as obscure as possible so as not to draw their former leaders' attention. 

The moment was very tense, and may have lingered in such dramatic silence for quite some time. 

However, Pyro chose that moment to spring to his feet and yell, "Crikey, what a rush!"

Apparently, he enjoyed getting dropped on his head. Either way, a startled Wanda withdrew from her father and hurried back to Lance, who put an arm around her shoulder in a quiet demonstration of protection that spoke louder to Erik than any other threats or proclamations could have.

Charles glanced at his old friend and said, "Perhaps we should discuss things in the library."

He set off in that direction and Erik fell in step, leaving Pyro with a curt order of "Do not cause me to become angry." Logan started to follow them, but the professor gave him a Look and he shrugged, setting off to patrol the mansion. The teenagers hovered around, idle, until the professor called back, "Jean, Scott, if you'd like to join us...?" They obeyed, and the door shut behind the four of them. 

Rogue flitted down the stairs like a ghost and darted into the library as well, shutting the door quickly behind her. When she was not kicked out immediately, the others assumed she had been granted access to their council. Lance made a small noise of frustration, irritated that he was not included with them. As leader of the Brotherhood, he felt some sense of responsibility for Pietro, even if it was like claiming responsibility for some wild, untamable creature that was none of his business.

The remaining teenagers all proceeded to stare at the floor, or the ceiling, but none of them knowing what to do. 

Silence. 

"I'm Johnny!" Pyro blurted suddenly. 

"What?" said Todd, blinking owlishly. 

"That's my real name," he said, with a thick Australian accent that they were just starting to notice. "Johnny. Who are you people?"

Uncertain introductions were made, Evan in particular being rather wary of this newcomer. He wished Jean or Scott had been left behind as an ambassador, instead of him. The Brotherhood (minus Freddy, still eating) was simply standing there, not knowing where to go next. 

"Um," Evan mumbled. "Maybe we could go to the entertainment room."

"Sounds great," said Todd, who had just been getting really nervous.

The X-Man led the way, and the others followed him down a series of hallways until he at last opened a door and beckoned them inside. It was one of many such rooms in the Mansion, designed with the entertainment of quite a few teenagers in mind. 

"Oh, man!" Johnny cried gleefully. "You have an X-Box AND a Gamecube!"

He bounded across the room and skidded on his knees along the carpet, sliding to a stop in front of said game systems, where he snatched a controller from each and began comparing them critically. 

Evan stood in the doorway, arms crossed and in "ready for battle" mode. He didn't trust this guy at all, but he couldn't explain why. It was like a bloodhound that could smell something off but just couldn't find it. It frustrated him. 

Lance guided Wanda to an overstuffed blue couch, where the pair sat down together. The rock shaker was watching Pyro with interest, and didn't notice when Wanda winced and touched her forehead lightly. A sudden splintering pain rattled her senses, and then just as quickly vanished. All at once she had a gnawing sense in her gut that something was wrong with her brother. 

"Pietro..." she breathed in a soft, urgent voice. 

She made to rise to her feet, but Lance caught her arm and pulled her back onto the sofa. 

"What? Where're you going?" he said, confused.

"Pietro's in trouble."

"Yeah, we know. But we can't do anything yet."

"No, he's hurt-- I have to go to him!"

"Wanda, you can't see him! And how do you know he's hurt?"

"I just know! I feel it! Let me go!"

"I think we should stay here and let Xavier and Magneto talk--"

"I have to do something!"

"Wanda--"

A panic was building up in her, a hysteria she'd never known before. It was though she was moving in fast forward, or about to, adrenaline racing through her veins like some powerful drug. In this mania, she hardly heard herself speaking before she cried out in unthinking fury.

"You don't even CARE about Pietro!!"

Abruptly, Lance's hands dropped away from her. He sat there, eyes burning, mouth dropped open, barely managing to whisper, "what...?" But she wasn't listening, and leapt off the couch and rushed for the door. Something was in her way, and she suddenly felt strong hands gripping her upper arms, holding her back. Vision blurring, she blindly beat and pounded the chest in front of her, chanting wildly, "Let me go! Let me go! Let me go..."

Her shouting diminishing into hoarse cries, which in turn dwindled away to helpless gasps for air. She allowed the strong arms to hold her in a comforting embrace, unaware of who it was. That is, until the voice spoke in her ear. 

"We're all worried about him, little girl."

Her eyes flew open in a rage and she yanked herself backwards, slapping Johnny full in the face and watching in grim satisfaction as he recoiled and stumbled, rubbing his cheek in pain.

"What'd you do that for?" he whined. 

"You don't even know my brother." she said icily. "So don't pretend you're worried about him, because you're not. Not like I am."

Spinning on her heel, she starting stalking back to a flabbergasted Lance, when Johnny's wounded voice called after her. 

"Sure, I know him! He's Mungojerrie!"

She whirled around with a loud, "What the HELL are you talking about?"

"Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer." he clarified, still nursing his face tenderly. "You have quite an arm, lady."

"What are those? Mungo-whatever and something-Teazer. What is that?"

"They're cats. From a poem by T.S. Eliot." He straightened and gazed at her levelly. "My mum used to read that book to me when I was little, and Pietro read it himself when he younger. We talked about it sometimes, about all the different cats and how they reminded us of people we knew. Magneto was Macavity, and Gambit was Mr. Mistoffelees, and me and Pietro were Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer."

"Rumpelteazer's a girl cat." Even interjected suddenly. "My parents took me to see the Broadway show, 'CATS'."

"But in Eliot's original poem, Teazer's a guy." Johnny pointed out. "That's me." 

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Wanda pressed a hand to her aching forehead. "How did you know Pietro? I've hardly seen you in my life."

"You're not exactly a good barometer for people he knows," he scoffed. "You're hardly around him." Before she could bark out a retort, he breezed on. "And just where do you think he was after that Sentinel blew up? Hiding in an underground hole waiting to come back to you people? He was with us. With me. We got to be real good friends, me and Mungojerrie."

"You thought you were cats?" Todd wondered aloud. 

"No!" laughed Johnny. "But Mungo and Teazer are trickster cats. They get into all sorts of mischief and trouble together, and when something goes wrong, no one can tell you which one of them did it. Me and Speedy indulged in the world of pranks, mad as it made Macavity-- that is, Magneto-- and our tricks were so alike that nobody could figure out who was doing what."

Perhaps only Johnny was the one who saw what happened next. It was so small and imperceptible that only he, at close range, could possibly have caught it. 

A tiny smile twitched at Wanda's lips. 

"Really?" she asked quietly.

"Of course really. I never lie, except to myself." When she didn't say anything, he continued in an oddly gentle voice. "I came here with Macavity to try and find Mungojerrie. I miss him."

He advanced towards her, a bit cautiously, then getting bolder when she didn't lash out, and put an arm around her shoulders, leading her back to the couch and setting her down carefully next to Lance. 

"Now, my thinking is that we stay up here for at least a little while longer, and see what Mac and Baldy cook up, right?"

She nodded once with a meek, "Okay."

"Great." he smiled hugely at her and aimed a reassuring wink at the dumbfounded Lance. "Now, how about I tell you about some of the pranks me and Mungojerrie played on our poor mates..."

~


	24. Deep Breath

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Thank you all so much for your support. It's nice to know that, no matter how crazy and chaotic and confusing my life gets, there will always be one absolute, constant thing: that little voice in the back of my head screaming "You have to update MP!!" Reassuring, eh?

And snaps to everyone for the compliments about the Festival! Just so ya'll know, my show was a big hit and I had a lot of people come up and tell me they really liked my work. That just about made my little writer's heart burst with pride.

SO! Had to get a chapter out quickly because... I'm going on vacation! Again! Whee! Ain't life grand? I get to go to SAN FRANCISCO. Oooo. And I'm going to the Wax Museum and to their Chamber of Horrors to see if there's a Jack the Ripper exhibit. Are any of my other readers really into Jack the Ripper? Because I am.

KamalaKali-- Nope, I don't live in Delaware. I live... elsewhere... shifty eyes, shifty eyes... But I'm going to be in San Francisco. Wheee. Can anyone tell I'm excited? XD

kanoba-- Pietro already had his chapter, way back when. But he'll start doing more. I hope. If he cooperates.

Everyone-- I'm glad Pyro's so popular with all of ya. He's a bit off from the TV show version of Johnny, but I didn't like their version of him so much. Meh.

But enough about meeeeeee... on to the new chapter!

--

Pain.

Searing pain.

Pietro woke up screaming, clutching his middle and writhing on his back. It felt like his body was being consumed, from the inside, like he was caving in on himself. Actually, a more accurate description of how felt would be that his stomach was turning into a black hole and sucking him inside-out.

He rolled onto his side, panting, moaning, and realized it was hunger. It was a maddening, all consuming hunger that was eating away at him.

Superspeed easily burned up the light fuel he had consumed at lunch. He had been unconscious for an hour real time, a lifetime in this silent void. The lack of sustenance was killing him.

Breath hissing through clenched teeth, he started dragging himself down the hallway, heading for what he hoped was the kitchen. Although moving too fast for human eyes to see, he felt like even a crippled turtle could outrun him now.

Inch after agonizing inch, he lurched around a corner and recognized his surroundings. He was indeed heading for the kitchen. Was, in fact, quite near it. Perhaps miracles did happen every once in while.

He managed to open the kitchen door and slither in on his belly, stopping every few moments as he was wracked with pain. Slowly but surely, he made his way to the refrigerator and yanked the door open. A bottle of full sugar Dr Pepper was before him, and he ripped off the lid and guzzled almost all of it in one long drag of the bottle. A second finished it off.

Laying there on the floor, he felt the energy returning to him, the fire of his furnaces being stoked by the sugar rush. He had the strength to stand.

He moved through the kitchen like a whirlwind, eating ravenously and trying to balance it so that he ate things that wouldn't be burned up so quickly. Sugar, lots of it, and lots of protein, too; fuel that would last longer in the end.

Sated for now, he set off around the mansion to find some form of entertainment.

--

Logan prowled the mansion often.

It was his duty, the responsibility he had taken upon himself when he came here, a silent vow to protect those that he loved.

Through the halls he stalked, most often in the early hours of the morning, when no one was awake to appreciate his vigil. He hated being praised; made him more uncomfortable than most people would think.

Today however, with its' extraordinary circumstances, had driven him to take up his paces in the light of day.

No one noticed.

He walked a familiar path. Through the kitchen, the dining room, raising an eyebrow at Freddy dozing contentedly with his head leaned back against the wall. Into the hallways, down to the gym, into the exercise room.

Here the routine ended.

Sniffing the air, he smelled Pietro. And at the same time, he saw what the boy had done.

Bounding over to the wreckage, he examined the treadmill with a steely eye. Speed had given impossible strength to Pietro, and the work he had wrought was something Logan would expect from Sabertooth, minus the claw marks and the foul stench.

He passed a rough hand over the broken tread.

"All right, Speedy," he muttered. "Why'd you do this?"

The ruined piece of machinery did not answer.

--

As the door to the library closed behind them, Charles indicated for Erik to be seated. The man hesitated for a moment, before complying and moving to sit down in an armchair. Xavier himself seated himself opposite the little center area, so that he could see him at all times.

Jean and Scott shared silent looks, and he whispered to her telepathically, I'm sorry.She smiled at him, squeezed his hand, and sent back, Me too.Spreading his arm gallantly, he gestured for her to sit down on the couch, which she did, and he settled down next to her, putting a warm arm around her shoulders.

"Now Erik--" Charles began, but he got no further.

The door opened and closed quickly, admitting Rogue. She stood with her back to the door, uncertain, begging permission to be allowed to stay.

"Rogue," he said, scolding.

"Please, professor," she said softly. "I have to know, too."

Brushing her hair behind her ear, she tapped her temple once, indicating to him to come into her mind and see the reason. He easily stepped inside and was quite surprised by what he found.

Nightmares that were not her own. Nightmares haunted by the voice of... Erik?

Pietro's nightmares.

"Yes, Rogue," he said aloud. "Please join us."

She sat down on the far end of the couch from Jean and Scott, folding nervous hands in her lap.

"Now, Erik," Charles said again. "How much do you know?"

"Not much," he confessed. "Not nearly as much as I'd like to. Please, Charles, what's happened to him?"

"No one knows yet," Xavier explained quietly. "Although I promise you we're going to find out why."

"But what happened? Where is he?"

"As near as we can tell from the information we gathered from the Brotherhood, he began moving so quickly that they could not keep track of him. He eventually he became so fast that he vanished entirely, and there he remains."

Erik licked his lips and stared at the ground. The statue on the table next to him rose a few inches into the air, hovering nervously in place.

"Can... can he be... saved?"

"We don't know, Erik. We don't even know what could possibly trigger such a reaction."

"I see."

--

Upstairs in the entertainment room, the natives were restless.

Johnny had told a few select stories involving ridiculously immature pranks played by he and Pietro, most of which ended with the words, "...and that's why we aren't allowed to have shaving cream/cod liver oil/keys to the car/Aerosmith CDs/a karaoke machine/money anymore." When he had either run out of stories or gotten bored with telling them (no one could tell which), he had begun staring at the X-Box meaningfully.

Finally, Evan got the hint.

"Wanna play, Acolyte?" he challenged.

"Bring it on, X-Man."

The game of choice was " The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King". Evan played, as he said, "Aragorn, mighty warrior king!", while Johnny favored "Legolas, lethal and skilled in many forms of combat!" Evan called Legolas a "pansy Elf", Johnny called Aragorn a "scruffy moron". The battle was on. The setting: Pelennor Fields. The goal: kill more Orcs than your opponent.

"Ah ha ha!" Johnny shrieked. "I'm at thirty-one and you're at twenty-eight!"

"Watch this, flame brain," Evan snarled. "Two with one blow!"

"I'm in my groove! Look at me go!"

"Ha! That Southron didn't stand a chance, man!"

"How do you like THOSE apples?"

"Bring it on, man, bring it on!"

"Gah, you just shot me!"

"You can't shoot the other player!"

"Wait, are we supposed to be saving Merry and Eowyn...?"

"Forget that, man, these Orcs are just begging for an ass-whupping!"

Todd was watching eagerly, having always longed for an X-Box himself. He secretly hoped that they would let him play as well, but severely doubted his chances. The Acolytes and the X-Men were the cream of the crop; Brotherhood boys were just leftovers that neither team had wanted. There was little reason for them to share their treasure. It seemed sometimes that the worst discrimination against mutants came from the mutants themselves.

Lance had neither eyes nor ears for their activity. He sat hunched over on one corner of the sofa, hands clasped together and trapped between his knees. Haunted eyes stared straight ahead, peering uselessly at some point that did not exist, searching for an answer he might never find, while Wanda's words hissed at him from the silence.

_You don't even CARE about Pietro!!_

And what if it was true? While at the same time Pietro's voice screamed back from a farther memory.

_...because let me tell you my friend, you are nothing to me!_

No matter how hard he fought, he couldn't keep the tears out of his eyes.

--

Wanda, meanwhile, had long ago slipped quietly from the room, unnoticed by all. She glided down the stairs in stocking feet, rubbing her upper arms nervously. The whole mansion felt like it was closing in on her, smothering, suffocating. She couldn't recall a time when she'd felt so alone, nor so confused.

Seeing her father again. Should she be happy or furious? She remembered being so angry at him, once, a long time ago, but for the life of her she could not remember why. Every time she reached back into her memories, she saw her father offering her an ice cream cone, or taking her out to the movies.

But where was Pietro?

All these happy picnic memories of her and her father. The two of them at the movies, going on vacations, all these random events. But she couldn't ever remember going to school, or having friends. It was like she only had select memories, and the rest had been erased.

But this was real life. There was no Lacuna to take away anything that may have made her so angry.

Was there?

She quickened her pace to avoid thinking about that too much. It was impossible for someone to have their thoughts erased. Impossible. But then again, ten years ago, the world would have said it was impossible for someone to have blue fur and a tail and be able to teleport their body with sheer willpower.

Nothing is impossible. If she's learned one thing as a mutant, it's that.

At last, she reached her destination: the library. Taking a deep breath for courage, she moved closer to the doors, pressing her ear up against the crack between them and listening, tense and strangely frightened.

--

"There's nothing we can do to help him," said Charles. "Unless we more know more about him. Your son is a closed book to us, Erik. Only you can open it. Tell us everything."

"There's nothing to tell, Charles," Erik said, eyes veiled. "I don't know anything about what's wrong."

"You're lying."

Everyone glanced at Rogue, who had just spoken. She rose slowly from her seat and crossed over to Erik. Catching his chin in a gloved hand, she forced him to meet her gaze.

"Tell them the truth," she said in a flat, cold voice.

"I am..."

"Tell them," she said. "Or I will."

She released him and stalked back to her seat, but when she sat down she looked exhausted and fearful. Erik's hands were shaking, and he could meet no one's eyes as he said in a weak voice,

"Pietro's power was not always superspeed."

Outside the door, Wanda's hands flew to her mouth.

And as the mental images cascaded around the room, Charles felt a growing horror building inside him.

"My God, Erik, what have you done to him...?"


	25. Sins of the Father

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Ummm... As desperate as I am to find a legitimate excuse for the lateness of this chapter, there is none. Rest assured in two things: that I was tearing myself to pieces in guilt all this time, and that I'm never going to quit this story. There may be interminable stretches of time between chapters, but I'll never give up. I've made a commitment. And though I've had friends say, "you're being consumed by this story; just hit the X-Mansion with a freak meteor and be done", I refuse. Here I am. And here's a new chapter.

I realize that the quality is lagging. I'm sorry. I've been working on my own stuff (I'm writing a musical, huzzah for me!) and haven't had much time for fanfiction.

Besides, I saw RENT in July and it has consumed me utterly. Because everything is RENT.

Please enjoy this chapter. It was the hardest one for me to write.

.o.

.o.

.o.

.o.

Pale, ghostlike fingers traced invisible patterns in the wallpaper as Pietro crept silently through the mansion.

He was aware.

Sharply aware, acutely aware, more than anyone could ever have possibly been before him. His sense of smell was burning with a thousand different scents in the air. When he opened his mouth, he could fairly taste the food in the kitchen he had just left. His eyes were working double time, so that everything he saw was crisp and brilliantly clear, like he'd been half blind his whole life and just got glasses. Even the wallpaper under his hand felt unnaturally cold and smooth.

The only thing that didn't seem to be working was his hearing. Everything was as quiet, as deathly quiet, as if he were the only living being on the planet.

Absently, he rubbed the dried blood from his forehead, making himself presentable for an invisible audience. He brought one stained fingertip to his nose, sniffed it delicately. His pink tongue flicked out and tasted it. Bitter! He spat onto the carpet.

His path led him around to the entry way, and he smelled a new scent, something hot and pungent and familiar. Smoke. Old smoke, though, like the residue of smoke clinging to fabric. It reminded him of how Johnny smelled, the scent of Teazer's t-shirt after a fun-filled, fire-filled day. But that was impossible.

Suddenly, he halted, quivering. He could feel his ears straining, twitching, as every nerve in his body was instantly jolted with... what? It was like electricity, burning his senses and screaming for his attention. He whipped around, paranoid. Finally, his eyes settled onto the source, and he did a little leap in the air of delight.

Wanda!

He bounded up to her, skidding to a halt a few feet away when he realized in disappointment that she wouldn't be able to see him anyway. This realization also brought a hint of terror with it, a high-pitched wailing that started up in the back of his mind which he quickly silenced.

She was at the library door, peering in the crack at something. He didn't care. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply, enjoying for the first time how absolutely warm she smelled. Familiarity raced through him at that scent, the same sweet aroma that he'd known all the times he'd hugged her in their childhood. Overwhelmed by the memories, he kissed the back of her neck lightly.

Something was wrong.

His eyes snapped open. His nerves were crackling now as he suddenly became aware of another scent, one infinitely more overpowering. Old and strong and powerful. But it couldn't be! Not here!

He finally noticed the look of horror on Wanda's face as she gazed into the library. Something was in there. Something horrible. Something terrible. Something that chilled him to the bone, because he knew what it was even before he bothered to look.

But when he at last summoned the courage to slide under Wanda to look through the crack, his blood turned to ice in his veins and his eyes filled with bloodshot fury.

.o.

.o.

If silence were golden, then King Midas himself could not have made a more solid scene than the one in the library.

Jean squeezed Scott's hand and he hers, neither looking at each other but both suddenly aware of everything.

Rogue's heavy gaze was cast on the floor, weary and ready for the nightmare to end.

Charles stared in heartbroken horror at the man he had thought he knew so well.

Wanda bit her lip until it bled and the thin line of crimson traced itself down to her chin.

And Erik could look no one in the eye, least of all Charles, so he too kept his eyes on the floor, the statue floating a little higher, his hands locked between his knees to keep them from shaking.

"Erik..." Charles said again.

"I know what I've done, Charles." the other man hissed. "I know exactly what I've done. I know that I've followed in the footsteps of Josef Mengele, and all other cruel persons who have performed experiments on their fellow man. Oh yes, Charles, I am completely aware of this despicable crime, and there is no way to begin to describe to you, you perfect and blameless human being, how much it tortures me. How I can't sleep at night, how I can't eat, can't focus on my work. Can't stop thinking about it and what I could have done to... to stop myself."

A hand covered his mouth to stifle a sob, and he took a long, deep breath to in an attempt compose himself. It worked, and when he put his hand back with the other he was calm, collected, detached. When he spoke, he told the story as though it happened ten thousand years ago, and not to him.

"I met my wife, Magda, long after you and I parted company, Charles. I was already thirty-six, and she thirty-two. Years of misfortune had hardened me into a bitter man. The numbers on my forearm served not as a reminder of a hardship I had triumphed over. Rather, the only thing they brought to mind was my knowledge of the innate cruelty of the human race. A bitter, bitter man."

He paused, raking one hand through his snowy hair in a gesture that would have been startlingly familiar to any Brotherhood members, had they been present; a gesture they would have recognized at once as Pietro's. When Erik continued, a wistful, smiling glow came to his eyes, though his face remained impassive.

"Magda, she... she didn't seem to mind that I was damaged goods. Didn't mind at all. I remember the first time I showed her those horrible numbers on my arm. She kissed them, kissed every one of those wretched digits, and it was as though all the pain and the anger and the sorrow that had been infused in those numbers was washed away. A hopeless cliche, but what else can be said? I suppose when you fall in love, you also fall victim to spouting cliches and gushing ridiculous poetry. I had considered myself immune to such antics, but I soon found myself quoting Shakespearean sonnets with the rest of them."

Jean felt Scott's hand tighten over hers, and she squeezed back gently. A small part of her wished that Erik would end here, leave her with this taste of a romantic story and, hopefully, a glimpse of her future. The idea of Scott stumbling over a mouthful of "thee"s and "thou"s warmed her heart, but it was chilled by the knowledge that the tale she was hearing now could only end in tragedy.

"We were married after a brief courtship. It could have been even briefer, I suppose, if I had not been so afraid of asking for her hand. Our marriage was... quiet, is the word for it, really. Quiet and peaceful. I began to think that I had a chance to live life as a normal man. I never told Magda of my powers, though when she became pregnant I secretly worried that the child might be a mutant, also. Yet the child was born healthy and blessedly normal. We had a... daughter..."

His words choked him and he stopped speaking. Again, he swept a hand over his head, but this time all his pitiful attempts to disguise his shaking failed miserably.

Outside, Wanda was overcome. A daughter? An older sibling? Her face was transfixed with horror and confusion, when suddenly she felt it. The tiniest little kiss of warmth, for the shortest of moments, tickled the back of her neck. And at almost the same time, she sensed something near her, someone else looking through the crack of the door and supporting her.

Erik made a valiant attempt to resume his narration.

"A daughter. Our first child. We named her..." Choking, helpless. "We named her..." This time, a strangled cry of frustration. "I cannot say it! I cannot speak it, not after all these years of silence in her memory. I have trained myself to never repeat it, to never tell anyone, and old habits die hard. I'm afraid she shall remain a mystery to you, but just as well. I'll carry her name with me to my grave."

Charles remained silent, even though with his intense mental repetition of the name Erik had made it obvious to both telepaths in the room.

"She was a beautiful child, the apple of my eye, and her mother the apple of my other. Both had equal portions of my heart. And we lived in that uninterrupted, unhurried way that one would imagine befitting a little family of three. We lived in the Ukraine, a little town called Vinnista. I worked a simple job and brought home enough money to keep the three of us fed. Still, all things come to an end.

My employer (I will not name him) was a cruel, dishonest man. He cheated many of his workers out of their wages, myself included. He was one of the wealthiest men in town, while as time went on I could barely keep food on the table at home. Things came to a head when one day, he refused my wages outright. He had a thousand false complaints against me, designed to ruin my reputation in the village. I don't think I will ever know why he chose me as his target.

But when he would not pay me, my anger came to a boiling point. Without meaning to, I... I threw a crowbar at him. Not with my hands, but with the powers I had fought for so long to keep dormant. Ever since I had assisted those who rescued me from the camps, I had decided that I must smother those powers. I was a child then, a child who realized that being different had gotten me into the camps in the first place, and this new irregularity would doom me forever."

Erik stopped his narrative again, but this time in anger. He drove his fist into his palm, and the statue that had been floating erratically about now quivered in the air.

"What a fool I was! I think so often of what would have happened had I been more in control of myself, how things would have gone if I had any degree of restraint. Things could have been different! It was all my fault! All my fault!"

The statue suddenly smashed through the little end table and the ground, taking what was now a pile of splinters with it. Erik jumped in surprise, having been unaware of his activity. He groaned in embarrassment and buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed by the vicious memories. Charles opened his mouth to reassure him that it was all right, but Erik spoke again in a harsh, grating voice.

"There was a riot... a mob of terrified people, driven to madness by their fear of the unknown... they attacked my home... dragged me outside and set the place on fire... Magda escaped, thank God, but my daughter... my beautiful daughter... the house burned to the ground with her still inside... she was screaming, screaming for her father... and they held me down! They wouldn't let me save her! Those bastards condemned her to death with their indifference!"

He bit his knuckles against a cry of anguish, and outside the study Wanda wept as well, thinking of an older sister she never knew she'd had. When Erik continued the story, his voice dropped to a sinister note.

"But I had my revenge... When my daughter's screams died away and I recovered from my helpless outrage, I felt my powers surge through me ten times stronger than they'd ever been before. An insanity overcame me; every weapon they carried, every piece of metal on those monsters turned against them. Farmers were killed with their own scythes, guns turned on their carriers. It was a masterpiece of chaos. And when it was over, when my daughter's murderers lay drowning in their own blood, I walked over to Magda, who was kneeling in the mud with her hands covering her mouth.

I knelt before her and spoke. 'Magda,' I said. 'This is what I am, and I love you with all my soul. This is what humanity has done to us, and I plan to take you somewhere that claims liberty and justice for all. Will you still have me?'"

There was a long moment. Jean felt strangely nervous, like this decades-old story was happening that very instant, and a single word spoken could sway Magda's answer. Scott predicted an answer, but was being nudged by the telepath's anxiety so that he couldn't think straight.

"She said yes."

If Erik was aware of the two sighs of relief, he gave no indication.

"We left for America. It was a long and tiring journey, made all the more difficult by the fact that we were weighed down by grief and heartache. But I can still remember seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time... Young people born in this country can never truly appreciate that magic. They can never fully understand the majesty and the glory of that beautiful figure, standing with her torch lifted, a beacon of hope for all of us, the poor and huddled masses. It was odd, but even as I looked at her, I felt her. I felt the metal that formed her, and as I stared at that beautiful statue in awe, deep inside I had the knowledge that I was able to tear it apart.

I had not yet fully realized the evil of the entire human race. In those days, I still held a kindling of hope for mankind, not yet seeing the awesome potential of mutants, thinking myself a rarity among normalcy. I promised Magda and myself that my powers would never be used again, that I would have a new beginning in America as a man and not a freak of nature. We did notice, though, that the riotous explosion of my powers back in Vinnista had turned my hair a shocking white, where it had once been a rich brown.

We quickly found our place in the United States; both of us worked as servers in the same restaurant. And after a few years of this monotony, Magda became pregnant again. This time, it didn't even occur to me that the child might be born a mutant. It was a child! A child! Something to fill the empty places in our hearts, a new life that we could nurture and tend, and this time... this time, see her grow to adulthood, to became a woman with a family of her own, children of her own, our grandchildren... a thousand happy futures lay before this child. A thousand possibilities for the daughter with a father who would kill to give her what she wanted.

And I remember... lying in bed beside Magda one night, perhaps three months into her pregnancy, and hearing her say, "There's two of them, Erik, I think. In fact I'm quite sure of it. A boy and a girl." Both of us were thinking the same thing, then: God was blessing us double for our first loss. I felt like Job, after all his possessions were taken away, and then returned twofold for his faith. I did not question Magda's knowledge of their gender; she knew. A little girl for me to pamper and adore, and a little boy for me to pass on the teachings of my father to. She would be a princess, and he would be a prince."

At this point, Charles could not keep himself from smiling fondly, for his old friend had projected a powerful mental image without even noticing it. It was Magda, standing in a cramped apartment kitchen, and Erik kneeling before her, his ear pressed to her pregnant belly and grinning from ear to ear. Jean saw it, too, but because her powers were less acute she saw it as though through a frosted windowpane, which perhaps made it all the more haunting. Erik continued.

"On the night of their birth, I took Magda to the nearest hospital, where she delivered with very little trouble. The doctor told me, he said she did remarkably well for a woman delivering twins. Yes, twins! And Magda had been right about another thing; a boy and a girl. I remember holding Wanda for the first time...

My little princess! Those beautiful eyes, that soft wisp of dark hair, her perfect face pink with health and vigor. She was so small, she barely weighed anything. But she gazed up at me with those shining eyes, and I promised that I would take care of her for as long as I lived, and that I would kill anyone who tried to harm her. I thanked God for sending her to me... a replacement for the daughter I had lost..."

Outside, Wanda felt tears slip from her eyes, but didn't try to stop them.

"And then I held Pietro, my little man. Even then, I could feel that he was a survivor, that he would push through some of life's harshest fires and come out the other side alive. Not unscathed, for no man emerges from suffering without a burn. But he would endure. Endurance and survival. And I began to wonder at God's blessing, for sending me two children to replace the one... It was at this moment that the doctor approached me and told me my wife would not stop bleeding, and then I understood.

I understood that Pietro was not in reparation for the child I had lost, but for the wife I was about to lose!

Suddenly disgusted by the infant in my arms, I thrust him into the arms of a nurse and bolted from the room, chilled to the bone. I had been tricked! Fooled by a God I had trusted in for so long! Time and time again, he let me down, and yet I continued to put everything that I held dear into his hands. This final wound, this ultimate betrayal, stabbed deeper than anything ever before. All those years of prayer...!

They wouldn't let me into Magda's room. The doctors were working on her, I would just be in the way... I ranted and raved like a madman trying to get in there, but every time I got close enough, some monstrous orderly more suited to the task of nightclub bouncer would drag me away. 'Trust me,' they said. 'It's for your own good. It's for her own good.' I could have killed them all. There was enough metal in that single corridor for me to wipe out the entire building. But some shred of Magda held me back, some deep knowledge that if I had such an outburst again, she would leave me and never come back.

Which is exactly what she did..."

This time, Erik didn't try to mask his grief. A shudder ran along his whole body like lightning, bursting from his throat in a violent sob as he buried his face in his hands and wept. Perhaps some would consider this over dramatic, a bit cliched. But Charles knew that Erik had buried these emotions for so many years, had buried all emotion entirely, that now coming back in touch with it was like going from a wading pool to an ocean at high tide, getting slammed in the face with wave after wave until you start to drown. The professor's first instinct, motivated by compassion, was to send calming psychic waves in his friends' direction. But his desire to know the absolute truth knew that if he tapered off any of this raw emotion, Erik might lose his nerve and never finish the story. So he sat in sympathetic silence, waiting.

Jean, however, had no such willpower. Always sensitive to the emotions of others, this onslaught of distress was breaking her heart. Seeing such a powerful, stoic figure become so completely helpless in the thrall of his agony moved her deeply. Without even realizing it, she rose from her seat, leaving a confused Scott on the couch by himself. She crossed the small space between her and Erik, stood before him, and placed her hands on his shaking shoulders.

"I'm so sorry."

He looked up at her, his vision blurry from tears. Seeing another pair of eyes looking into his own seemed to steady him, to calm him, and he regained his composure rapidly. He took her hands in his own and gave them a firm squeeze of gratitude, saying in a faint voice, "Thank you, my dear." With a nod of understanding, Jean returned to her seat, feeling strangely calm as well. Erik cleared his throat, ashamed of himself for such a display, and continued.

"Magda died within hours of giving birth to the twins. My heart died too, I'm afraid, and I left my newborns at the hospital for several days, while I retreated to my apartment to grieve. Perhaps I would have remained shut away there forever, if one day I had not accidentally tripped while crossing the room, falling hard and cutting my arm on the sharp corner of our kitchen table. As I went to nurse the wound, I saw that the blood had smeared so that it looked like my old camp numbers were bleeding. I had always seen these numbers as all of humanity, and suddenly I saw what enormous potential lay within me: I could make the human race bleed!

My grief rapidly transformed into a self-righteous anger. In a short span of days, I had claimed my children and taken them to Germany, where through my quickly expanding powers I transformed an abandoned, forgotten castle into a home for us. I stole shamelessly, for no one could stop me. Who could stop a metal-framed bed as it floated out the front door of the store? Who could stop the canned food from flying off the shelves and into the sky? No human, that is certain.

It was in these days that through chance I encountered my second mutant companion. My first was you, Charles, though we both considered ourselves the only ones of our kind. This one was much different. This one would aid me in ways I can never fully repay, for in return for food and shelter, she helped me raise my children. I could never have done it alone.

Her name was Raven.

Yes, you know her now as Mystique. But in those days it was Raven, Raven and Erik, hiding away in their castle and trying to care for two motherless infants. She herself was pregnant, and perhaps it was these maternal instincts that drove her to name the poor devils, calling the first Wanda and the second Peter. Although I approved of the name Wanda, the name Peter struck a chord of anger in me. It was a Biblical name and I had sworn away from God for good."

He paused. Charles glanced at the floor, concentrating, as Logan suddenly sent him a mental heads-up: "Speedy's been in the exercise room, Chuck; he tore the treadmill to pieces." The professor barely had time to send back "Thank you, Logan.", before Erik's voice spoke again.

"Raven's pregnancy intrigued me. I began to wonder whether her child, sired by a mere human, would be born with such incredible powers as his mother, or whether he would fall prey to the horrible birth defect known as normalcy. With her permission, I began to perform the first of my experiments on mutants, injecting her with certain chemicals that I hoped would awaken a dormant mutant gene.

We lived like this for several months, and I began to get to know my children. Wanda was a loud baby, screaming for attention when she was ignored, laughing riotously when I gave in to my paternal urges and played with her. Her hair came in fast and thick, dark like her mother's. I loved her. She was the daughter I always deserved. I hoped desperately that she was a mutant like me, although at this time I lacked the equipment to test whether it was so.

Peter, on the other hand, was irritatingly quiet. I think he knew that I hated him. Yes, I hated him! My own helpless child, and I loathed the very sight of him. He was a taunting from God, a life that had been given to me in exchange for Magda's, a life that I did not want responsibility for. I made a point of showing God this, showing him how foolish he had been to throw this child into the hands of a man who hated it.

Although I played with Wanda constantly, I never did so with Peter. I left the baby in his room, usually in the dark, in silence. I never went near him. In fact, if it had not been for Raven, perhaps he would have perished through my inactivity, wasting away in his crib while I sat downstairs with his sister in my lap. But no, Raven cared for the boy, saw him maybe as a predecessor to her own son. I would come upstairs to put Wanda to bed, and I would see her in there, holding Peter in her arms and singing quietly to him. She never had to soothe him or shush him; as far as I am aware Peter never cried, choosing instead to stare at me with haunting blue eyes whenever he wanted something.

Still, all things must end, whether they are good or bad. Raven gave birth to her child, whose mutant gene I had successfully awoken. He was incredible, a mutant from birth, a masterpiece of nature. She fell into an exhausted sleep after the long delivery, and I had a few precious hours with what I suddenly and fanatically believed to be my true son. Maddeningly silent Peter could rot, now; I no longer needed him! Through my science, I had created my own child, a child as mutated and powerful as myself. I even contemplated killing Peter and literally replacing him with this newer and better child. But Raven awoke, and in a flurry of terrifying transformations and screamed accusations, she fled the castle and took the newborn with her. I pursued her, but by the time I caught up with her, she had lost the child to the river.

We parted company that night, and it would be some years before I sought her to be my companion again. The child is now one of yours, Charles, and I congratulate you on your attaining such a fine example of mutant kind."

Erik stopped and again ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath and contemplating all the information he had just shared with them. Seeming to approve of his telling, he then went on.

"Wanda was walking now, though Peter still refused to graduate from a crawl. As much as I wanted to, I could not leave my son to die. Magda was watching me, Magda was everywhere, and I could not commit such a crime in her presence. The name Peter brought me such irritation, however, that I finally changed it to Pietro, a name more suited to his Polish origins. He also began to grow hair, which I noticed in surprise was shock-white, exactly like mine, only bypassing altogether the phase of brown. When he at last began to walk, the twins were just over a year old.

We couldn't stay in Germany any longer. The castle seemed to be closing in on me. I took us back to America, and after using my powers to procure the finances, bought us a house. The backyard had a tree in it that I remember very clearly, a tree with a branch very low to the ground. There was also a swing set, which the children adored. We lived there for several years. I didn't need a job, I just stole what we needed. I found that it was easier to commit robberies in other states, and as I was searching for a way to travel rapidly I discovered that I myself could fly. This talent did not go untapped. Half of the cash I stole was given to babysitters that I hired while I went out and robbed humanity; an amusing side note in this story that I must observe.

Meanwhile, I was building up an impressive miniature laboratory in my basement. It was stocked with everything I needed; chemicals, equipment, a computer. The only thing it was missing was a subject. Again I returned to the science of mutants, and began to wonder if I could awaken a dormant mutant gene in a child that had already been born. Without even thinking twice, I chose my own children as the subjects for this test. They were four years old when we started, and after several weekly sessions of injections, their powers sprang to life.

Wanda's were as impressive as my own, a thing that filled me with fatherly pride. She was unlimited; as I had complete control over metal, so she seemed to have complete control over everything else. In anyone else, this would have concerned and frightened me. But Wanda was such a good girl... All she wanted to do was please me. When I told her never to use her powers unless I told her to, she took me absolutely seriously. The neighbors never even suspected her immense abilities.

Pietro, on the other hand, was a disappointment. His powers seemed to be that of a jackrabbit; hypersensitive hearing and sight, and incredible reflexes when provoked. The latter part of his powers I did not realize until I saw it myself. He and Wanda were playing in the backyard, and when she threw a clod of dirt at him, he was ten feet away in a split second. This intrigued me, yet when I asked him to do it again, he could not. He tried and tried, but seemed unable to access the speed without the adrenaline of imminent danger. In frustration, I went to strike him across the face, but my hand slapped thin air, and he was on the other side of the yard by the time I realized he had moved.

I trained with Wanda for a year, from when she was four to when she was five. She was a quick learner, amazingly quick, and I loved her all the more for it. She was growing into my perfect little soldier, and we reached a point where she was able to destroy the swing set and I put it back together again. Throughout this year, Pietro moved about in my peripheral vision, slipping in and out as swiftly and silently as the rabbit I had once compared him to. He became self-sufficient, feeding himself after Wanda and I had our meals. Don't think I didn't feed him! He refused to eat when I was present. More than once I dragged him to the table with us, where he would sit sullenly, staring at his plate.

Still, Wanda loved him. When she wasn't training with me, she was playing with him, taking care of him, seeming to understand that he was weaker than she was. She never used her powers around him because they made him feel ashamed. Instead, they chanted silly childhood rhymes and climbed all over that old tree, singing and laughing and chattering.

Curiosity killed the cat, and yet I could not stop myself. Was there a way to harness Pietro's speed so that he could access it at all times? Could I take this pathetic excuse for a mutant and refine him into a well-oiled engine? These were questions that begged to be answered. The possibility of side effects in the long run didn't even occur to me.

When Pietro was five years old, I began work on him.

Every week, I gave him a series of injections, compiled variously of adrenaline, caffeine, and amphetamine; all the central nervous stimulants I could think of. I had the gut feeling that he just needed a trigger, just needed enough energy to break into a higher level, and then he would stay there. Every month, I would perform tests on him to see if there had been any change. Tests to gauge his speed..."

"...with a treadmill." Charles said softly, suddenly understanding why the treadmill in the exercise room had been destroyed by Pietro; it was the cry for help of a scarred child, lashing out at a symbol of his suffering.

At those words, Erik glanced up from staring at the floor, guilt written all over his features.

"Yes, a treadmill. I made it out of solid metal, and it was powered by me. I could make it go as fast as I pleased, which gradually became phenomenal speeds. I'd set Pietro on it and tell him to run as fast as he could, and I would make it go faster and faster... He'd be running and running and begging me to stop, telling me he couldn't go any faster... I lost count of how many times he stumbled and was thrown from the machine..."

Jean couldn't stop herself from gasping in horror at the idea of a father throwing his child from a speeding piece of machinery. Scott was hearing Evan's voice in the back of his mind, when he had described Pietro as looking like he had just woken up from a nightmare; Spyke had no idea how close he was to the truth! Erik gnawed his lower lip, ashamed, and forced himself to keep talking.

"Every week it was the same. Then, it became every other day. I was getting frustrated by the lack of progress. I upped his doses of the drugs. Pietro began to act strangely, edgy and paranoid, prone to chilling shrieks when surprised. At one point, Wanda was playing a game with me where she would come up from behind and pounce; I thought it was amusing. Yet when she played the same trick on Pietro, his fantastic reflexes sent him tearing into the wall, which he clawed and pounded like a terrified, trapped animal. This hysteria became frequent, and Wanda seemed to be the only person capable of calming him down.

I remember rolling up his sleeve, exposing his little arm, hearing him say every day, "Please don't do that, it hurts", and hearing myself saying, "Trust me. It's for your own good." I spat out the same words they had said to me on the day of Magda's death. "Trust me." And he always did. He always sat there in silence as I injected him, and he always got back on the treadmill, though it had thrown him time and time again.

As time passed and I sensed I was nearing a breakthrough, a force more dangerous than I could have predicted intervened on Pietro's behalf.

Wanda.

One afternoon as I prepared Pietro for his injections, the needle suddenly glowed blue and flew from my hand. I looked up and saw her standing there in the doorway, blazing with anger as she said, "Leave him alone." I tried to explain to her how it was for his own good, how he needed my help to become as powerful a mutant as she was. But she would have none of it, and kept repeating "Daddy, you're hurting him!", as though this was an obvious fact that I was unable to acknowledge. She was right, you know; I was so blinded by my need to make Pietro into something stronger and better that I didn't see how much it was tearing him apart.

After arguing with her fruitlessly for a few moments, I ordered her to go to her room. She refused. I repeated my command, and still she stood there and said in a voice full of love and responsibility, "I'm not leaving him with you." She said it so calmly and so forcefully that it was easy forget that I was talking to a girl that was a few months shy of six years old. My anger was straining at the leash. The next few things happened in rapid succession.

Pietro dove from the table and scrambled to hide behind his sister. I lunged to grab him, but even though I came from behind his spectacular hearing easily told him my exact location, and he darted forward in a burst of speed that put him out of my reach. Resorting to the use of my own powers, I maneuvered a metal chair so that it would intercept him.

Suddenly, the chair slipped from my grasp.

I could no longer lift it, though it was solid metal. I couldn't sense any metal at all. It was like being instantaneously turned deaf; to be so abruptly denied one of my most basic senses was the most jarring experience I had ever encountered. Glancing at my hands, I saw that my entire body was shrouded in a blue glow. Even more disturbingly, my vision traced the source of the glow to Wanda's hands. Somehow, she had turned off my power as easily as flicking a light switch!

There was nothing I could do. I stood frozen with indecision, locked in a staring contest with the daughter I thought I knew, seeing none of her obedience to me, seeing only the countless disasters that lay in the future if I kept her under my roof while she was in this rebellious state.

I had to send her away.

This was the only conclusion that could be reached. When she at last released me, whether intentionally or out of default from exhaustion, I smiled and suggested that she and her brother go upstairs and watch television. Wanda was suspicious, of course; I never fooled her for a moment. But Pietro accepted it, tugging her up the stairs by the sleeve, seemingly oblivious of the battle he had just witnessed, the battle that had been fought over him.

After several days of phone calls and arrangements, I approached the twins about going to see the circus. They were both delighted, Pietro especially so. I casually mentioned that it would be a long drive to get there, but if they were on their best behavior on the car trip, I would buy them each cotton candy when we got there. Full of childish solemnity, they agreed to my terms and clambered into the backseat of the car. It was raining. I hoped to drive through the rainstorm, but it seemed to get heavier and stormier the farther we went.

The two of them chattered excitedly the whole way, although occasionally one would shush the other, comically frightened of losing that promised cotton candy. Wanda seemed so calm and controlled that I seriously contemplated turning around and taking them home, forgetting this whole rash plan.

But I had no guarantee. If Wanda continued to use her powers without my permission, and in particular against me, she could not stay. She had been so well-trained since such an early age that her power to break those rules so easily was a warning sign. Understand that I did not intend to leave her there forever; merely until she had learned some self-restraint. Then I would take her back and have both of my children by my side, both of them developed to their power's full potential.

When we arrived, they both leapt out of the car and into the rain, stopping only after they had splashed through a maze of puddles, because only then did they see that there was no circus. I think they knew also that there had never been a circus. They turned and looked at me as I came up behind them, and they asked me where they were. They were answered when the front door of the massive building opened and a small group of men came out to meet us.

After a brief discussion, in which I repeatedly stressed that they were to take good care of her, one of the men advanced towards my children and knelt before them. Pietro ducked behind Wanda instinctively. The man said, "Hello, Wanda, would you like to come inside?" She shook her head, so he said, "Wanda, you're going to have to come with me." "Can I come?" Pietro injected nervously, grasping Wanda's hand. "I'm afraid not, son." The man said. "Come on, Wanda."

When she began to back away, he grabbed her arm, and one of his companions grabbed the other. The two of them lifted her into the air and began to drag her towards the building. Pietro made to stop them, but I ordered sharply, "Pietro, stay where you are." As Wanda kicked and screamed and begged, all of her awesome powers were rendered useless by her panic. She had no coherency to summon them. And Pietro, paralyzed by his loyalty to me, stood there mournfully, his eyes shining with fear and confusion.

As the doors slammed, I urged Pietro into the passenger seat of the car, driving away from that place as fast as I could. He was silent for quite some time, and when he did speak, it was to ask a question. "She'll be coming home soon, right, Dad?" I had known the question was coming, and had been terrified of answering it. But I found that words flowed from my mouth, words of comfort and reassurance and false promises. We didn't make any stops on the way home, except at a confectionary; I bought him cotton candy."

Erik stopped speaking then, apparently finished. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest, his head tilted up and his eyes staring at the ceiling. This reminded Scott strangely of a serial killer that he just been told he was sentenced to death; the same unfocused gaze, the look of one who was contemplating a horrible crime and wondering whether it had been truly worth it.

"Erik," Charles said slowly. "What happened to Pietro?"

"It speaks for itself, doesn't it?" he answered, sounding tired. "Only a few months later, when I had the treadmill accelerating past Pietro's breaking point, it was as though something had snapped. He exploded off the front of the treadmill and slammed into the wall, bouncing off of it and landing lightly on his feet. We stared at each other. Something passed between us, some unspoken message, where his eyes said "I did it" and my eyes said "well done". Within hours he had perfect control of his new speed, and over the next few days he ran just about everywhere imaginable. He would vanish from sight, and then a few minutes later would reappear and tell me what the weather was like in Canada.

The power awoke a new sense of self in him. I saw the building blocks of confidence being laid down carefully in him, and he was always striving to be better and faster. Always striving to please me. He seemed to forget Wanda entirely, instead becoming my son for the first time. The only side effect I noticed then was his sudden, horrible stutter. For the first few weeks, he could barely speak, and only with careful training did we manage to tame it. It would only reappear when he became particularly agitated.

But my plans for the future were far too grand and intensive for me to be raising a son at the same time. Besides, he was becoming cocky and arrogant, picking up far too many of my own pompous mannerisms for his own good. He began to grate on me, even more so once he neared the age at which my first daughter had perished, reminding me of her through no fault of his own in everything he did. And besides, even through all the years of our companionship, there was always the knowledge in the back of my mind that he had been traded for Magda, and there was no way he could measure up to the standards of such a bargain.

I gave him up for adoption when he was eleven years old, making vague promises to come and claim him when he was older, the same promises I had made to myself regarding Wanda, the same promises I had never followed through on. I sincerely doubted that I would come back for him, and wondered if I'd ever see him again. When I dropped him off at the orphanage, he glared at me and threatened that as soon as no one was looking, he'd run right back to me. I told him coldly that I was moving to somewhere he would never find me, and that I didn't want him around anymore while I was working.

I think that, although Pietro's survivor spirit was much too tough to be broken, I dealt it a savage blow that day when I drove away and left him there alone."

Erik sat there before them, spreading his hands and staring into the eyes of each of them in turn, too haunted and burdened and conflicted to comprehend.

When he looked in Jean's eyes, she looked back, and she saw more sadness and guilt than she had known was possible to carry in one person.

When he looked in Scott's eyes, he tried to look back and found that he could not, glancing away and at the floor, not knowing whether to be heartbroken by this man or disgusted by him.

When he looked in Rogue's eyes, she stared back, and the echo of Pietro that still remained inside her was blasted to pieces with a grating shriek, banishing her nightmares back to their source, leaving her in peace for the first time in forever.

And when he looked into Charles' eyes, he saw such compassion and such a desperate desire to understand that he, Erik, could not sustain eye contact and instead looked at his feet in despair.

"I am finished." He said miserably. "It is over."

And when everyone was trying to think of something to say, the most unexpected thing happened.

The doors to the library blasted open in a blue explosion.

There was a peculiar rush of air around them, something rapid and intangible and hysterical that only Xavier could recognize as Pietro, as the library books flew off the shelves and all the paintings were torn from the walls. Wanda came storming in, somehow slipping through the cyclone of her brother's rage, racing instead up to Erik, who had risen to his feet and was backing away.

"You bastard!" she screamed. "You bastard!"

Although she didn't realize it, Pietro was for a split-second beside her, howling the same words, the whites around his eyes all visible as he was possessed by some sort of furious insanity. He could feel spit flying from his mouth as he shrieked insults in such a high, unintelligible voice that even he couldn't understand what he was saying. Moving without even realizing it, he grabbed his father by the shoulders and threw him to the ground, like tipping over a statue in a wax museum and driving it into the floor.

To those moving in realtime, Erik was standing there, and then instantaneously was on the ground, gasping for breath as the unseen Pietro knocked the wind out of him with his force.

Before he could recover, Wanda was upon him, slapping and punching and screaming at him, as she was gripped by a similar madness to her brother's. But although Pietro was driven by years of anger that he had carried his whole life, she felt like she was seriously losing her mind. All the artificial memories fled, and were replaced in a wild rush by the truth, a pounding stampede of rapid images so that she felt like her head was going to literally explode.

She might have kept tearing at her father, but the pain in her head became so great that she staggered backwards, clutching at it and wailing in confusion and agony. Jean rushed to help her, but found herself suddenly on the other side of the room, dragged there by a panicky Pietro.

To him, he had been racing around the room for an interminable amount of time, hours and hours for all he knew, ripping and shredding anything that he came in contact with. Those who would clean up the library later would find that almost every book had its' pages torn out, and shelves had been smashed and broken, paintings ripped into pieces, all this damage done in a span of a few seconds. But he had suddenly become aware of Wanda standing there, holding her head, and he had seen Jean moving to touch her. Some weird protective instinct kicked in, and he hauled the redhead across the room and deposited her in a corner.

He ran around in a panic, seeing Wanda in trouble and being unable to help. He screamed her name, he screamed at his father, he screamed and slapped himself in the face. The superspeed had been tampering with his nerves for all this time. Now it had snapped, and he was rapidly losing control of himself. He continued slapping his own face, hyperventilating and still running in crazed circles around the library, dying to help Wanda but not able to comfort her. He threw himself into a wall, and suddenly, this blow seemed to knock him back into place.

He paused.

Shaking uncontrollably, he drew in a long breath and steadied himself.

Breathe. Think. Breathe. Think.

Wanda.

Then he knew what to do.

For Wanda, everything was being stretched in a different direction, the world distorting and spinning and laughing and yelling. She was aware of her father shouting, and she saw Jean out of the corner of her eye, and somehow she was sure she heard Pietro screaming her name.

Suddenly, everything vanished. For the briefest of moments, a lightning strike, a blank nothingness.

Then she was lying in Pietro's bed, back in the Brotherhood house, carried there by loving arms and surrounded by the old quilt that smelled like him, cushioned by pillows that had been brought from her own room.

And even though she couldn't see him, she knew his arms were around her.

.o.

.o.


	26. Fierce

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: RENT has eaten my life. That's really all I can say. And then my computer ate this story. I'm working without a beta, so any mistakes must be chalked down to exhaustion, disinterest, or just plain laziness.

I know they're out of character. If they were in character, all their problems would be superficial and shallow, and all conflicts would be able to be resolved in a half hour. Did anyone else feel slightly cheated by the Evo writers?

This chapter is Wanda's first-person point of view.

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Don't let go of me.

Please, Pietro. I know you're there. Don't let me go. Don't let me slip away from you.

Again.

It hurts. It hurts to remember. Am I remembering? Is that what this is? Is it real this time? All those picnics... the carousel rides... the fireworks! They're not real. They're not true. That happiness, that family isn't mine.

An institution? Some kind of asylum.

Oh, god.

I remember.

It is real.

Father!

I have to think. I have to think. This is too much for me right now, too much for one person to handle. The strait jacket. The strait jacket! It hurt my arms, made them cramp and tingle at the fingertips, a tingling that wasn't my power. I hated that jacket. I still hate that jacket.

I remember when I moved in with the boys the first time, I got all tangled up in my sheets during the night and I was having a nightmare that I was back in the strait jacket. Pietro was trying to free me when I woke up, and I threw him across the room. Crack! I can still hear the sound of his head colliding with my dresser. Red! I can still see the blood spreading through his ghost white hair, shimmering on his fingertips after he touched the wound.

At the time, I couldn't have been happier to see him in pain.

What made me hate him so much?

It's not like Pietro put me in the asylum. In fact, if Father was telling the truth just now, Pietro didn't want me to go at all.

I guess that after years and years of anger and rage building inside of me, it was just easier to see them as one person, a single entity responsible for my imprisonment. I got too tired to bother separating them. It was so simple to say, "Pietro didn't rescue me and therefore he's at fault."

He promised to take care of me. He broke his word.

I promised to take care of him.

I guess we're even, now.

Deep, shaky breaths. Looking around Pietro's room. All these movie posters. Jaws. Never seen it. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Never seen it. The Godfather. Never seen it.

I used to wonder why I'd never seen any movies. I was too busy being locked up as a dangerous crazy person. That tends to leave you very little time for trips to the local cineplex.

I'm so confused.

I wish there was an easy way out of this. I don't want to have to deal with this. If I had my way, I would just keep the old memories and forget all this new shit. Although really, I guess this new shit actually is the old memories, and the old memories are the new shit. See? It's too complicated!

I wish it would all just disappear!

I wish I would just disappear.

It would save everyone a lot of trouble, that's for sure. They wouldn't have to deal with my hysterics. Father wouldn't have to deal with his psychopathic daughter. And then everyone could stop pretending that Pietro was going to come back. He's not going to. He's going to die. Oh, god, I know he's going to die and they're all telling me he'll be fine because they don't want me to get hurt.

He's going to die.

I'm so scared.

What's going to happen to me?

I'm freezing. I bundle the quilt around me, snuggling into it and deeply inhaling the smell of Pietro. It smells like his cologne. He loves that cologne. It's called Fierce, and whenever he says the name, he makes his hands into claws and hisses it like an angry cat. "Fierce! Hissss!" He's such a crazy person and he makes me laugh.

That's why I love him now. He makes me laugh. I came back from the mountain resort, and I didn't know what the hell to think. All I knew was that I was very, very sad, and there was no better remedy for that sadness than Pietro. He's pretty much the funniest guy in the world.

And apparently I hate his guts.

He touched his hand to his head and pulled it back, saw the blood there. Then he looked at me, the pain still registering, his eyes wide and confused. I was still half-tangled in my sheets, but I laughed at his despair, thrilled to see the red stain seeping across his head. He staggered, dropped to his knees, but I said, "oh, no you don't, you can go pass out in the hall!"

That's what he did.

Todd found him in the morning sprawled on the floor, half of his hair sticky and reddish brown. Once they woke him up we saw that his pupils were different sizes, which Lance was fairly sure meant something bad but which no one was certain about. There was a huge lump on his head where it had struck the dresser. Pietro gave me a look, and I laughed again.

"Don't know my own strength!"

Pietro never lets you see him hurt. Once he woke up a bit more, he was "fine". He rebuffed Todd and Lance's efforts to make him stay home from his usual wanderings, he turned away the breakfast Freddy made for him, he even refused a ride in the car, saying he'd rather run. He was gone all day, and after supper there was a strong wind and the sound of his door slamming, which meant that he was home and the tomb was sealed.

I'm sorry, Pietro.

I'm sorry, little brother.

I'm trying to understand what made you the way you are. The way you grew up, knowing Father hated you, knowing you would always be second best to me. I think you knew that Father saw you as an unworthy substitute for Mama, and I'm doing my very best to see this all from your perspective.

How would I feel if not even my father loved me?

How would I behave if I was always told I'd never be good enough?

How would I respond if the only person who ever loved me was taken away?

I think, Pietro, that in this whole wide world there are only two people that you love. There are more that you like, but only two that you really love, with a love that is as fierce and passionate and desperate as anything anyone has ever known. This love burns through you, eats away at you, and as much as you wish you could, you are powerless to control it.

The first person is Father.

For all your scoffing and sneering, you love him, Pietro. You can't help it. You are his son. And perhaps it is the knowledge that he will never love you that drives you even more. He is the forbidden fruit, unattainable, not meant for your consumption. You are not supposed to ever have his love, yet this makes you try all the harder because if you should one day earn that love it would be sweeter than any other prize on earth.

The second person is me.

And the more I think about it, the more think that I am not worthy of this love.

This overpowering, overwhelming love. I don't deserve it. For all the times that I hurt you, both physically and emotionally, you just come back for more. I try and I try to drive you away, but it's no good. God only knows why you've chosen me, but here you are.

Here we are.

I'm so scared to lose you.

Now that I've finally found you and you've finally found me.

I can't even imagine living without you. Since you disappeared, I keep trying to picture myself surviving, moving on past this tragedy, adjusting to a life with a Pietro-shaped void in it. But what will I eat for breakfast if it's not one of your pan-fried PopTarts? Who will I play checkers-chess-poker with? Who will show me the movie "Moulin Rouge!" for the first time?

Please don't leave.

Now I know why Pietro vanished in my artificial memories. He disappeared from my mind after we turned five years old, never at any of the picnics or parties. He is absent at the big Fourth of July fireworks show and there is no sign of him at the circus. It's because we didn't grow up together. All those years we could have had... years of whispers and secrets, of staying up late and sneaking out after curfew.

I close my eyes now and try to imagine what it might have been like.

The two of us, ten years old, terrified after a Halloween movie marathon. Pietro is desperately convinced that Freddy Krueger is just around the corner, while I entertain fantastic notions of Jason Voorhees leaping from behind the couch, brandishing his machete and ready to dice us to bits. We don't sleep a wink all night, but rather protect each other, watching harmless infomercials in an attempt to distract ourselves from our fears.

I'm fourteen and Dad won't let me go to a party with friends. Pietro helps me make a rope out of bed sheets, just like I hear they do in the movies, and after he lowers me out the window he promises to distract Dad so my absence goes unnoticed.

I'll bet if Pietro ever got picked on by bullies at school, I would beat those guys up and rescue him. And I'll bet if I ever had a boyfriend who hurt me, Pietro would track him down and give him an ass-kicking he wouldn't soon forget.

We wouldn't have to break our promises.

But those vows are broken now, and it's too late for either of us to try and put them back together.

This all feels so unfair. It's not fair! Who asked us if we wanted to be separated? Who asked us if we were ready to say goodbye? When did we give them permission to take away half of our lives?

I can remember, now. They thought they took it all away, but I remember. For all of the horrors of the asylum, I'm glad to have my real memories back. Because now I can remember the real Pietro. I don't have to remember him as a sneaky little rat who stood idly by and let me get locked away. I don't have to remember him as a malevolent force who stood by Father and encouraged him to throw me in the darkness for so long.

I can see him wiggling to fit under the bed in a game of Hide and Seek. I can see him scrambling up the big tree and then offering me his hand, pulling me up with him.

I remember... Frankenstein...

We were barely five. We stayed up late watching the old Frankenstein movie. I was scared to death! I couldn't even comprehend going into my room by myself, in the dark, with that big empty closet hiding who-knows-what. You took me in your room, Pietro. I fell asleep in your bed. Before I did, though, I remember saying...

"Don't let the monster get me, Pie..."

And you said, "I won't. I promise."

It was only a few months later that you were crawling into my bed. You could barely drag yourself up, you were so weak and shaking so badly. I held you in my arms and tried to help you as sweat poured down your face and you wept from the pain. I can remember how small and thin your body was, wracked with spasms, arching and twisting as those drugs ripped through your system.

We didn't understand it, then. But I understand it now.

It was the day before I stood up to Father in the lab, and I now know it was the day before he decided to send me away. I wasn't thinking about what I was going to do tomorrow. I wasn't thinking about how I could make him pay. All I could think about was how I could make you safe. I held you close.

Through chattering teeth, you begged, "Don't let him hurt me, Wanda..."

And I said, "I won't. I promise."

Neither of us has kept their word.

I suppose it's only fair that both of us got burned in the bargain.

I'm so confused.

I'm so scared.

I bury my face in the quilt and inhale deeply.

Fierce! Hiss!

Then I lay the quilt on the bed and stand up, walking for the door and the phone. I have to call them, let them know where I am, let them know I'm okay. They probably think I just disappeared into thin air like Pietro did. Well, they're not getting rid of me that easily. And I'm not letting go of Pietro that easily.

As I walk, I put my hands in my pockets, and I feel in one of them a slip of paper.

Suddenly, I remember.

Pietro disappeared, and Lance instantly had a note in his hands from him. At the same time, I had a piece of paper in my hands, but without even thinking I stuffed it in my pocket and forgot about it. Now I have it.

Digging it out, I unfold it and see a message in Pietro's wonderfully familiar handwriting. It says three words. __

_Come What May_

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	27. Bring On The Night

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: And _Melting Point_ comes rising out of the grave, a newly-awoken vampire with a thirst for reviews!

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When night comes, there's nothing to be done. No amount of human effort can bring back the sun. No amount of wishing, hoping, working, fighting, screaming, or crying can make the dawn come any faster than it normally does. The darkness will settle, the stars will come out, and night will rule the earth. For ten hours or so, the moon is the ice queen, ruling from the sky, holding back her cousin the sun and keeping the world in shadow. Her servants, the stars, watch impassively, diamond-cold and diamond-hard, but also diamond-beautiful, a daunting maze of constellations. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, someone somewhere looked up into the pit, and instead of being afraid of eternity, he said, "I see a dragon." And there were others, perhaps encouraged by this act of bravery, who said, "I see a crown." "I see a hunter." "I see a big dipper."

So humankind learned to endure the night by making it into a spectacle, a time to be enjoyed. There were telescopes and midnight rendezvouses, and children craved the opportunity to stay awake as late as possible, not knowing that really the best part of sleep is that one does not have to face the night.

Even with all of this, night is still a looming shadow over the world. There's no escaping it, there's no denying it. Night will come, no matter who you are or where you live. Night will find you. And night will turn out the lights.

- - -

Night was approaching. Her herald, dusk, was performing his duty and driving the sun down to the horizon. Inexorably, sun had no choice but to retreat, forced off the edge of the world.

When it was time for a late dinner, very little had been accomplished. Erik spent a long time in the med lab with Hank. The idea was that a powerful tranquilizer might be able to slow Pietro down long enough for them to lay a hold on him, but even once they accomplished that, they had no idea where to go next. Tensions were high; Hank was clearly furious with Erik for his abuse of his own child, and Erik was so furious with himself that every other sentence out of his mouth was something bitter and self-degrading.

In the meantime, after a curt phone call from Wanda, Logan had driven the boys back to the Brotherhood house to reclaim her. She said nothing to them while they packed their bags for a stay at the Mansion, she said nothing to them on the drive back, and while they were getting settled into the guest rooms, she said, "I miss him."

And nothing more.

Dinner was as silent as the grave.

Most of the X-Kids ate quickly and quietly. Only Kitty said anything, and it was, "Rogue, it's your turn." It was movie night. Everyone took turns choosing films, and apparently, Kitty was the only one who kept track. Rogue said, "Okay." The silence came again, accompanied by the gentle percussion of forks clinking on plates.

- - -

_There was a boy_

_A very strange, enchanted boy_

_They say he wandered very far_

_Very far_

_Over land and sea_

_And then one day_

_One magic day he passed my way_

_And while we spoke of many things_

_Fools and kings_

_This he said to me:_

"_The greatest thing you'll ever learn_

_Is just to love and be loved in return."_

- - -

Almost all the kids gathered in the enormous television room to watch the movie. Rogue put in the DVD, and up came the title menu for _Moulin Rouge!_

"No." said Wanda flatly, rising to her feet. "I can't watch this."

"What's wrong?" Scott also stood, his hands out in a placating gesture. "Is something wrong?"

"I can't watch it." she insisted, eyes riveted on the screen, on the Green Fairy.

Everyone shifted uncomfortably. Most of the new recruits didn't even want to be in the same room as the Brotherhood but had been lured by the smell of freshly-microwaved popcorn, and were now seated in clumps on several different couches. Todd and Freddy were sitting on the floor, while Scott, Jean, Wanda, and Lance had all been seated on the same couch. At the back of the room lurked Johnny, his hands jammed in his pockets, standing in a corner with his head ducked down like it could turn him invisible.

"Why can't you watch it?" Jean asked gently.

"I can't, not without him."

"Him..." echoed Todd bitterly, and then he said, "Can-can dancers."

The Brotherhood had an almost telepathic moment, as the same memory came to all of them. It was from just the day before, in the morning, when Pietro sprang onto the kitchen table and performed as a can-can dancer while insisting enthusiastically to Wanda that she absolutely must see _Moulin Rouge! _

"He wanted to show it to me." Wanda insisted, her voice trembling. "I can't watch it now."

And then a silence seized everyone like a strangling hand closed around their throats. The new recruits exchanged fearful glances. Scott looked at Jean, helpless. Todd and Freddy looked at Lance, helpless. And Johnny growled, "Russian roulette." in a voice so low that only Evan and Lance heard him.

Suddenly, and without anyone seeming to see her walk over there, Rogue was standing next to Wanda, taking her arm and saying, "Sugar, I think he'd say it's okay." When the twin gave her a stricken look, she continued. "It's a movie that'll make you think of him, right? Don't you think he'd like that?"

No answer. Then, a tiny nod.

"I thought so. Let's watch the movie. You can sit next to me, okay?"

- - -

Wanda thought, this isn't that great. She sat between Rogue and Lance, trying to focus on the kaleidoscope of the film, but her mind was elsewhere. One hand was in her pocket, fingering the mysterious note from Pietro. It said: _Come What May. _But what did it mean? She didn't know. She tried to think if she'd heard him say it before, in a poem, in a riddle, in a song...

Wait!

The morning of can-can dancers and singing boys... Pietro and Lance had gotten into a sort of competition, singing all the songs that were apparently in this movie, and Lance had sung, _"Come what may!" _

She sat up straighter, nudged Rogue and hissed, "Is there a song in the movie with the words 'come what may'?"

Lance glanced at her sharply, and Rogue said, "Yeah." A pause. "It's in this next scene, if you just wait a second."

Waiting had never been so difficult. Wanda fidgeted like a five-year old on Pixie Stix, impatiently willing the star-crossed lovers to hurry up with their declarations of devotion and start with the singing already!

Her ears caught the beginning of a wistful piano chord. Her whole body went rigid with anticipation, and she grabbed Lance's knee in such a vise-like grip that he gasped in surprise.

The picture blurred before her eyes, and there was Pietro reaching across the void, sending her a message with a song because he couldn't tell her face to face. A voice sang clear and strong:

_Never knew I could feel like this_

_Like I've never seen the sky before_

_Seasons may change, winter to spring_

_But I'll love you until the end of time_

_Come what may_

_Come what may_

_I will love you until my dying day_

_Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place_

_Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace_

_Suddenly my life doesn't seem such a waste_

_It all revolves around you_

_And there's no mountain too high, no river too wide_

_Sing out this song and I'll be there by your side_

_Storm clouds may gather and stars may collide_

_But I'll love you until the end of time_

_Come what may_

_Come what may_

_I will love you_

_The greatest thing you'll ever learn_

_Is just to love and be loved in return_

_Come what may_

_Come what may_

_I will love you until my dying day!_

By the time the song was over, Wanda's face was buried in Lance's shoulder and she was crying so hard that she could hardly breathe. Todd was crying but trying to hide it because big boys don't cry. Lance wept openly, his tears falling into Wanda's hair and becoming lost. Rogue looked like she wanted to weep but was unable to. Evan was staring at them, trying to understand, trying to decode the secret message. Scott looked away, embarrassed. Jean put a comforting hand over his. The rest of the new recruits pretended that nothing was happening, just kept watching the movie. In his secret corner, Johnny's eyes were glassy and his hands were twitching. He was in the middle of problems of his own.

Then Wanda was bolting from the couch and Lance was bolting after her and Todd was curling up on the floor like a lost puppy and Rogue was laying back and closing her eyes and Scott was clearing his throat and Bobby was saying, "This is a depressing movie."

- - -

Out in the hall, Lance caught Wanda's arm and used her own momentum to spin her into his arms, where he caught her and held her like a bird he was terrified would fly away. There was a split-second of this feather-light containment. Then Lance was crushing her to him, his embrace fierce and protective. For a few minutes, everything was tears. Deep, gasping sobs and desperate streams of tears that seemed to have no end and could have certainly watered a whole garden. Only after all of this emotion had released its steam could they speak.

"He was sending me a message..." Wanda said softly.

"Tell me." Lance asked.

She looked up at him and he lowered his eyes respectfully, a silent acknowledgment that if the message was too personal, she didn't have to tell him anything. This respect warmed her heart.

"He left me a note." she explained. "He left you a note about the X-Men, and he left me a note that said 'come what may.'"

"Oh." said Lance quietly.

"I had never seen the movie, so I didn't know what it meant." she confessed. "I thought I might have known and forgotten. But just now, it was like, it was like..." A short, overwhelmed laugh. "It's like he was talking to me! He was telling me that... that it's all gonna be okay."

"I'm glad." he said honestly, voice thick with emotion.

And they went back inside to watch the movie.

- - -

_Listen to my heart: can you hear it sing?_

_Come back to me and forgive everything!_

_Seasons may change, winter to spring_

_But I'll love you until the end of time_

- - -

When the movie was over, there were very few dry eyes in the room. Most were crying over the emotional finale of the movie, but one person was not.

Wanda was crying in fear. She was terrified, absolutely terrified. Pietro's message took on a whole new meaning when coupled with the ending of the film. She hated it, wished she had never seen it in the first place. Then "come what may" wouldn't be joined by the horrific "I'll always be with you." and death, separation, and loss.

Once again helpless, Lance could only put his arms around her and shush her uselessly, saying in a stupid voice, "It's gonna be okay."

Everyone departed to their rooms. The Brotherhood boys had been piled into one guest room. Wanda and Erik each had a room of their own. The two of them met in the hallway, him coming up from the med lab, her heading up to sleep. A simmering glare passed from daughter to father. A heartfelt gaze reached back in the opposite direction, but she broke the connection before his message could get through.

Pajamas were put on. Bedside lamps were turned out.

Scott went into the kitchen to put the popcorn bowls in the sink, to be washed out tomorrow morning by someone other than himself. Maybe Jean would do it. As he turned to leave the kitchen, he saw the pantry doors were open. There were empty bags and boxes all over the place. A note was taped to the pantry door. He crossed over to it on stocking feet, sneak, sneak, sneak. Plucked it off the door like a petal off a flower. This is what it said.

_Still here. _

_- P_

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	28. Paper Tiger

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Ta da! Boy, don't you guys all love me? Wish me luck on my NYU application; they have a dramatic writing program to die for.

This chapter is in Lance's POV.

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I don't know how much longer I can do this.

Being the leader. The big brother. The one that everyone looks to when things go wrong.

It's tough. Especially because most of the time, they don't want me to be. They sneer and roll their eyes and say, "Geez, Lance, who made you the boss?" And then when there's trouble, it's all, "Lance, what should we do? Lance, what should we do? Lance, Lance, Lance!"

Pietro knew.

He hated it. Hated trying to be the boss. When Magneto put him in charge, I could see how unhappy he was. He didn't like the responsibility, didn't like all the extra stuff he had to do. Had to keep tabs on everyone, keep an eye on everything. That's why he quietly, subtly, handed the reins over to me.

And now I'm stuck.

Again.

It used to be my job. I got out of it, somehow. I can't remember how. Just remember that one day, I didn't have to do it anymore. Didn't have to lay awake at night worrying about every single tiny little detail. I could sleep. Let Pietro stay up all night. It's his turn, anyway.

Nope.

He didn't give me that much time to rest before he was wiggling out of it and scampering back to his position of reckless comic relief.

Thing is, I'm not sure if I'm any good at this anymore.

It's been a while.

It used to be instinct. I could just storm into a situation and take control. I could make decisions in the blink of an eye, without having to think about whose feelings might get hurt. I was a good leader, worthy of Magneto's little army.

Something happened, something that shook me out of it.

I'm not sure what.

But one day, I started to doubt. I started to think twice. I was second-guessing myself for the first time in years.

Was it Kitty?

I don't think so. Kitty was a factor, but not the whole problem. It was...

Pietro.

When Pietro ran away from us on the day of the Sentinel, he ran away with everything I ever took for granted. He ran away with my confidence, my courage, my trust. And he still hasn't given them back.

Before Pietro left, I thought I had a brother. A guy that I could connect with, put my faith in, knowing that he would follow through on any promise he made. He made me feel like an adult. He treated me like a man. He wasn't into all that petty teen rivalry crap. He gave me a surprising amount of respect, and any teasing or bad-mouthing that he did was an innocent jest. Pietro never meant a single one of his insults. I knew this. It was a good thing to know, since he made so many of them.

He made me strong.

He followed orders. Sure, there was sarcasm and verbal sniping, but in the end, he did what he was told. Later, I would find out that he was taking orders from higher up, but that didn't bother me so much. I mean, so what? We got things done, no matter who was taking orders.

The next thing I know, he's gone.

I didn't really have time to think about it. Everything was happening very fast. The bad guys had Freddy imprisoned in one of those blob things, and it was up to me, the leader, to help get him back. Only once Freddy was safe did it start to sink in.

Pietro was gone. And he hadn't been taken from us. He had left. Of his own free will.

That really bites. I still haven't gotten over it. I try, I really try, to make things the way they were. Pietro tries, too. We're both working our asses off, trying to make a time machine. What betrayal? What arguments? What fight?

We had a huge fight the night he came back. Not like a yelling fight, either. More like a knock-down, drag-out fight. Out in the backyard. Started out with him sneaking out there to... smoke? Make a cellphone call? I don't know. I just followed him.

"_You bastard."_

"_Get over it, Alvers."_

"_Get over it? Is that all you can say, get over it? You must think I'm stupid."_

"_No, I just think I'm the boss. And guess who else thinks so? That's right. Magneto."_

"_Well, I don't think so. And until your followers actually think they're following you, you've got nothing."_

"_Shut up. Now you're just talking to hear yourself sound all self-righteous."_

"_But you know I'm right."_

"_Says who? Right and wrong are defined by the circumstances. How do you think people can plead self-defense on murder? In these circumstances, either one of us could be right. I guess only God knows the answer."_

I didn't know what to say. I was so frustrated because he had outsmarted me again and made me feel stupider than a rock. I thought I had him cornered, thought I was going to be the one making him feel bad. As usual, I was wrong. And it made me so angry that I couldn't speak.

So I hit him.

He didn't even hesitate, just slugged me right back.

And then we're just whaling on each other. Fists. Elbows. Knees. Feet. Heads. Anything we could hit each other with, we did. I had blood on my hands, but I didn't know if it was mine or his. I tasted blood in my mouth, definitely my blood now. And at one point, I had him pinned to the ground, arms behind him, and the fight could have been over. I could have held him like that until he cooled down.

But I let him up.

I wanted to keep hurting him.

By the time we were done, we were both seriously thrashed. We tried to crawl away from each other, but it hurt so bad to breathe that we couldn't even think about moving. We just lay there under the moon, focusing on bringing the oxygen into our lungs and sending the carbon dioxide out. It took a lot of energy and concentration. So much concentration, that I almost missed it.

"_I'm sorry."_

A croak, a whisper, a whimper. Sorry for what? For the fight? Or for the betrayal?

I don't know.

He ran away.

As usual.

And somewhere between then and now, I became the leader again.

In the bed across the room from mine, Todd flops around like a fish out of water. He's a restless sleeper. He always wakes up all tangled in his blankets, and he seriously has no idea what happened. One time, he was so tangled that he couldn't even get up, and he had to holler until me and Pietro could go in there and untangle him.

On the floor, Freddy is motionless. Unlike his little buddy, the big guy sleeps like the dead. Completely still. He's on a pile of unzipped sleeping bags, a makeshift mattress that won't break under his weight. He sleeps on the bare carpet at home, so even though the X-Men were embarrassed by him not having a bed, this is the lap of luxury for him.

These boys look at me like I'm the gladiator Maximus, leading his men fearlessly into battle. I feel more like the Cowardly Lion. There's a lot of pressure to be a good captain, to take control, to pretend I know what I'm doing, even though I'm completely clueless. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do!

Should I pretend he's going to be okay, even though I'm not fooling anybody? Or should I tell them what I really think?

I don't think he's coming back.

It breaks my heart.

And I hate it when movies have that ending line, "I'll always be with you." What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is that supposed to be some sort of consolation? Yeah, I'm dying, but you know what? I'll always be with you! Even though I'm _dead! _

Shit. I don't know what we'll do without him.

What will Todd do without someone to teach him checkers-chess-poker? What will Freddy do without someone to run to the 7-11 at three in the morning to get him an Icee the size of a standard garbage can? What will Wanda do without her twin?

Her twin, for god's sake.

I saw her at the end of the movie. She can't deal with this. She can't survive without him. I wish I could just pull a new Pietro out of a hat for her, somehow replace the old one. The old one was defective. There was a recall. Here's a newer, safer, nicer Pietro. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.

Or maybe she can take me.

Would that be acceptable? Can I fill the void that Pietro will leave behind? They're big shoes to fill, but I could manage, I think. I could be the guy that makes her smile. The guy that makes her feel special. The guy that gets all her attention.

Dammit.

I told you I'm not a good leader.

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	29. Inferno

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: About time, eh? Much love for the loyal readers, and much love for the new ones! Who knew this old story could gain so many new fans after all this time?

And by the way: I'M GOING TO NEW YORK UNIVERSITY! Next fall I'm starting in the Dramatic Writing program at the Tisch School of the Arts. BAM! Rock on.

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**inferno **--- Any place comparable to hell.

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The stars were warriors. Ice-cold gladiators with burning eyes, guarding the night like they were guarding a treasure trove. They were the queen moon's sentinels...

Sentinel!

Pietro's eyes snapped open wide, wide, with whites all around the edges and his breath coming in rapid, ragged gasps. Top Gear was burning a hole through his mind, like a disease. He figured his brain must look like swiss cheese.

Cheese.

Everyone knows the moon's made of cheese.

"I'm going crazy!" Pietro hissed to the cool night air.

The stars didn't answer.

So Pietro sang: "I'm turning Japanese, I think I'm turning Japanese, I really think so!"

And he danced. It's just a jump to the left...

"I wonder," he said (while he danced), "If there will be anything left of me to rescue."

The stars didn't answer.

So Pietro did the Time Warp again.

And again and again and again and again and again and again and again...

- - -

Jean couldn't sleep.

She didn't know how the Professor did it. Blocked out all the turmoil. When people are very upset, they send off intense waves of telepathic distress that are almost impossible for telepaths to shield themselves from. Somehow, the Professor must be able to do it, though! Otherwise, how could he get any sleep at all?

Maybe he doesn't get any sleep, she mused. Maybe he's an insomniac. I hope I don't become an insomniac!

Those were thoughts for another day. For now, she would just focus on sleeping.

Only, she couldn't sleep.

Finally, she decided that maybe warm milk or something could help. It always helped in the movies, right? A glass of warm milk always sent the troubled hero or heroine into a deep and restful sleep, and they would wake up the next day refreshed and ready to fight evil.

Only, the evil was in their house and sleeping in their guest room all by himself.

No. Don't think about Magneto.

So she slid out of bed and into a bathrobe and slippers and down the hall and heading for the kitchen. How long does one microwave milk to make it warm but not hot?

Rustle, shuffle, shuffle.

Someone else was awake. She heard footsteps, pacing around the library that had been destroyed by the Maximoff twins earlier in the day. Someone was in there, but who? She reached out tentatively with her mind and was quite surprised.

"Pyro?" she said, at the door to the library.

His head snapped up lightning-fast, his eyes wide and his face bathed in sweat. His hands opened and closed in fists at his sides. He laughed when he saw her and said, "It's the redhead!"

"Pyro," she crept into the library slowly, sensing something wrong. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh, it's fine, princess. Don't be worrying about me. Just... don't feel well."

"I'm sorry." she said politely. And then, "Is there anything that might help? Warm milk, maybe?"

"I haven't felt well in a long, long time." he continued, ignoring her, not even looking at her. "I hope I die soon. I don't really like being alive anymore."

"What are you talking about?" she gasped. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes." he said. But he didn't say anything else.

So she advanced towards him, stepping carefully over the remains of the ruined library. Pages everywhere, covering the carpet like snow. Broken shelves lined the perimeter of the room, decorated with mangled paintings and the empty shells of books that used to have pages, now just strips of cardboard. He didn't acknowledge her approach. She laid a hand carefully on his arm.

"Pyro—" She pulled her hand away. "Oh my god, you're burning up!"

"Burning up!" he cackled, rubbing his hands together. "Right from the inside! Whoosh! Up in flames!"

"Are you sick? Pyro?"

"My name's not Pyro." His voice dropped, his eyes became clear, as he turned on her with a growl.

She backed away. "What would you like me to call you?"

"My mother called me Johnny." Just as suddenly, she lost his attention and his gaze wandered to the ceiling. "I wonder where she is."

He walked away from her, over to the wall, leaning his forehead against it. She didn't know what to do. She wanted to wake up the Professor. She wanted to call for some kind of help. But how could they help him if he wouldn't even tell her what was wrong? To think, if she hadn't have wanted her stupid warm milk, she could be safe in bed and not having to worry about any of this.

"You know," said Johnny. "You must think I'm crazy."

"I don't think you're—"

"You don't want to see!" He spun on her, screaming. "You don't want to see because then you have to know! And you don't want to know! You want to pretend nothing's wrong and that humans will accept us! You're so stupid!"

He was crying, hysterical, and then he pulled off his t-shirt.

Jean recoiled, horrified. His chest was marred by a nasty black lesion, a sickly smudge against his pale skin. He spun in a wobbly circle and she saw a second, smaller one on his lower back.

"Look at it, look at it, look at it!" he babbled, and then he sank to his knees, covering his face. "I don't feel good, I really don't, I think I'm gonna throw up..."

Instinctively and before she knew what she was doing, she ran over to him, crouched next to him, put an arm over his burning shoulders while trying not to touch that... that thing on his body that marked him like a pariah.

"It's okay, Py– Johnny, it's okay."

"It hurts all the time, now." he said darkly. "My whole body. It aches like an old man's. I think I'm dying, and I just want it to be over with."

"Do you know what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing that concerns you, Miss Grey." a new voice warned.

Jean and Johnny looked up and saw Erik Magnus Lensherr looming in the doorway like an avenging angel, his broad shoulders seeming to fill the frame and his silver hair catching the light from the kitchen. Johnny whimpered and scooted away from Jean, cowering before the imposing sight. Jean stood, arms crossed, trying to act braver than she felt.

"What is going on?" she demanded.

But before Erik could either answer or ignore her, Johnny bounded towards him and stared him in the eyes.

"I'm dying, aren't I?" he asked earnestly.

A long, long pause. Then Erik said, "Yes, I believe you are."

"But how?" Johnny's voice rose in pitch, desperate. "You said that you saved me! You said you would protect me!"

"I cannot undo the past, John." said Erik gravely. "I'm afraid I may have been too late."

"Too late for what?" Jean demanded.

"He saved me!" Johnny moved towards her, stumbled, held his stomach and groaned, "From them. There were needles and surgical masks. And he said it was all over, that he would help me." he turned agonizingly on Erik. "But you didn't!"

"I tried." the older man's voice grew impatient, frustrated with... himself? "I brought you out of there alive!"

"But you didn't! I'm a dead man! I just happen to be walking around!"

_Far away, out in the backyard of the mansion, Logan clicked his lighter, a cigarette already waiting between his lips..._

Suddenly, Johnny's eyes widened. His hands flew out as though he were parting the Red Sea...

_Logan grunted, startled, as the flame of his lighter suddenly leapt away from him..._

And then fire was in Johnny's hands, stolen fire that he now built into an enormous ball and sent hurtling at Erik. The room was bathed in an infernal red glow, every corner and cranny and secret place illuminated and thrown into stark relief for all eyes to see.And just as suddenly, the fireball vanished as Jean ripped apart its creator's mental link to it.Johnny whirled on her, furious, snarling, "Why did you stop me?"

He bolted towards her, then suddenly stopped, swayed, and collapsed.

Before Jean could say or do anything, Erik had swooped over his fallen Acolyte and knelt beside him, laying a cool hand on his scorching forehead. He winced when he saw the lesion, then looked up at Jean and said weakly, "It's not what you think."

"Oh, it isn't?" she said coldly. "You didn't decide to continue your original work? Pyro just made up all that stuff about needles and experiments? Tell me, sir, what am I supposed to think?"

Jean felt sick, physically sick, that Erik was in their house. He was a monster hiding in the body of a man, who genetically altered his own son and the poor young man that now lay twitching on the floor before her.

"I rescued him." said Erik calmly. "From a mutant experimentation facility."

That knocked her flat. Unwilling to believe him, she reached out into his mind for proof. She saw it, saw the metal doors of a laboratory being torn away, the syringes being thrown into the bodies of the humans who had wielded them... saw the broken, emaciated young man strapped to the surgical table, his head shaved and his eyes glassy from all the drugs. Saw Magneto's hands reach into the image and gently undo the straps, cradling the boy in his arms like it was his own son.

"They called it the Legacy Virus." Erik's voice said, somewhere far away in the fog. "A disease they were creating to kill mutants and only mutants."

She saw the care, the gentility that Erik showed his new ward. She saw Johnny unable to walk or talk, his words stolen from him after years of silence, and Erik patiently teaching him all over again. She saw Johnny with his hair growing back and his eyes a little brighter, carefully building his flamethrowers while Erik watched with silent encouragement. And then she saw the Johnny of the present, the Pyro she thought she knew, screaming in panic as he pointed to the lesion on his chest, begging, "Why? Why?" and Erik shaking his head slowly.

"By the time I found the location of the facility, John was the only surviving test subject. There were others, but I was too late for them. I thought that I had saved him..."

Jean slowly came back to the now, blinked and looked around the shattered library, the destruction wreaked by Pietro and Wanda, both of them victims of experimentation, both of them with psyches so scarred and twisted that no amount of care and gentility could ever fully heal them.

She saw Erik gently pulling Johnny's t-shirt back over his head, guiding his arms into it and smoothing it into place like a father would his young son.

No.

"He's a replacement." Jean said, her voice shaking.

Erik said nothing, pretended he didn't hear her. He lifted Johnny in his arms and carried him to the couch, laying him down on it and putting a pillow under his head.

"He's a replacement!" she repeated, louder, "For Pietro!"

"I don't know what you're talking about." he said stiffly, searching for a blanket.

"You knew that you could never repair the damage you inflicted on your own son," she continued, trying to keep her voice from cracking with fury. "So you gave up on him and sent him away. You didn't get rid of Pietro because he reminded you of Magda," (and Erik flinched when she said her name,) "You got rid of him because he was your dirty little secret! Every time you looked at him you were forced to remember your own cruelty, your hatred that you took out on your child!"

"That's ridiculous!" he insisted, but he would not look her in the eye.

"And then you found Johnny. Someone with the same problems as Pietro, the history of abuse, the experiments, the fear. But it was someone who didn't know you! Someone who you could introduce yourself to as the hero, the savior, the rescuer. Someone who would look up to you and owe you his life. He probably doesn't even know that you're exactly the thing that he was running from!"

Erik had been standing with his back to her, unable to face her accusations. His hands were shaking as he rubbed them reflexively on his thighs, as though he were trying to wipe them clean. Suddenly, he whirled around and stormed towards her, his eyes blazing.

"I saved him! I saved his life!" his voice was hoarse with emotion. "Those monsters would have killed him down there, just like they killed the others! He would already be dead if it weren't for me!"

"But he's still dying, isn't he?"

"There was nothing I could do! I tried!"

"Pietro wasn't dying." She paused, looked away from him. "And you didn't even try."

He didn't answer. He couldn't answer. He strode swiftly from the room, one hand swiping furiously at the tears that had almost fallen.

He ran away.

So that's where Pietro got it from.

Jean stood in the ruined library and covered her face with trembling hands. This was a nightmare, a horrible nightmare. They were all just watching it, bystanders, audience members. But Erik, Wanda, Pietro, and now Johnny were the participants, the players. They were performing this macabre Twilight Zone episode for the whole world. It was their lives. And there was no way for them to change any of it.

Before she could go back to bed, she instinctively went to check on Johnny. He was still unconscious from his collapse, his breathing shallow and his shirt already drenched in sweat. She put a hand on his forehead and wished more than anything that she could take all of his pain away.

And then fever-bright eyes were staring up at her, silently questioning.

"Johnny, I don't know what to say." she began lamely, then finished sincerely. "I'm sorry."

He took her hand tenderly in his (how could his hands be so dry?), rubbed his thumb over the back of it, smiling as though recalling an old, fond memory.

"Don't you worry about me, princess." he said weakly. "When this is all over... this body is gonna burn away in flames... and I'm gonna come rising out of the ashes... like a phoenix."

Then his eyes rolled shut while his smile faded into a grimace of pain, and he was asleep.

When Jean went back to bed, she had abandoned the idea of warm milk entirely.

Nothing could help her sleep now.

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	30. I'm Not Stupid

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: I love all of my reviewers. That's really all I have to say. Thank you for sticking with this story for so long. This isn't a goodbye; the story's not over yet! This is just a simple thanks for your loyalty and your encouragement.

This chapter is from Freddy's POV.

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I'm not stupid.

Everyone thinks I'm stupid, but I'm not stupid.

Yeah, I know I'm not smart. But that doesn't mean I'm stupid! Everyone just thinks I'm stupid. It's not that simple, though. There's a huge difference between being smart and being, you know, street smart. I'm street smart, I think. I can take care of myself, that's for sure.

And I'm smart enough to know that Pietro's not coming back.

They think I'm stupid, so they keep telling me it's gonna be okay. Their talking is what's stupid. If I can figure it out, then everyone must know. Pietro's gonna die. He could be dead already and we just don't know yet, which would kind of suck. But he's not coming back.

Just because I'm not smart doesn't mean I can't understand.

I know what death is. I know what it means. It means I'll never see him again, ever. I'll never talk to him again. There might not even be a body for us to bury, and I always figured, you know, having a body was a good thing. It's closes things. It gives closure. That's the word, closure. Don't think I'm stupid because I couldn't think of the word right away. Lots of smart people get their words mixed up.

But even though I'm not stupid, I still can't get my head around this idea of not having Pietro around anymore. He's always been around, and I figured he always would be. Like Lance and Todd. But now I'm not so sure.

If Pietro dies, who's next? Will it be Todd? I really hope not. Todd's my friend. But so is Lance. I don't want them to die. I don't want Pietro to die, either, but it's too late for me to do anything about that. So I've got to hold on to the ones I've got.

I've seen a lot of things that most people don't ever get to see. Since everyone thinks I'm stupid, they act like I'm not even in the room sometimes. That means I get to see stuff. Important stuff. Like Lance crying at the kitchen table when Pietro ran away. Or Todd ripping up a picture of Pietro and screaming, "you stupid bastard!" Everyone was really mad when Pietro left.

I was really mad, too. I took Pietro's favorite CDs and broke them in my hands. There was one that I couldn't rip up, though, because I had seen Pietro crying when he listened to it and I knew it had to be really important. I kept that CD in my room. It's called _Moulin Rouge! _I think it's a movie. If it made Pietro cry, and he never cries, it must be really important.

I wish people cried more. I'm not very good at figuring out what people are thinking unless it's really obvious. Like when people are laughing or crying. Even though people laugh a lot, they don't cry enough. I can never tell when people are sad. Usually I confuse it with mad, because when people want to cry they get really angry and yell at me. Later they're crying, though, so I know that's what they wanted to do all along.

If they cried, I would have known. I could have said nice things to them. Like Pietro. And Lance. And Todd. If they would have just cried, I could have tried to help them. But I thought they were mad at me so I left them alone.

Now it's too late.

That makes me angry! It's not fair! I should get to go back, and they should have little signs over their heads that say: "I am sad." and "I am angry." and "I am lonely." I can't be expected to read their minds! If they had signs like that over their heads, I might be able to do something instead of walking off and eating!

I like to eat. It's calm. It makes me calm. I like the taste of food, and the feel of food. And I'm hungry all the time. Before I knew I was a mutant, I thought all of my eating is what made me so big. I was wrong. I'm glad. I would hate to have to stop eating all the time. It's nice.

Pietro brought me Icees at three in the morning. He was nice. I miss him already, that's why I'm talking like he's already dead. He _was _nice. But he's not nice anymore. He's gone. I can't wait around for him to come back, it'll just make me sad and maybe even kill me, too.

I waited and waited for my dad to come back, but he never did. The waiting almost killed me. Only, he didn't not come back because he was dead. He didn't come back because he didn't want to be with us anymore. Oh well. He might as well be dead, I guess. If I think that he's dead, it doesn't hurt.

Nothing can hurt me. I'm the Blob. I'm unhurtable. I like it that way.

But sometimes, things can hurt me. I don't like that. I didn't like getting angry when Pietro left. And I don't like feeling sad that he's leaving again.

Does anyone else think that's really unfair? That we got him back and now they're taking him away again? That sucks! It makes me angry! I'm angry and sad at the same time. It's not a good place to be. It gives me a stomachache.

Because I think it might be my fault.

I'm good at keeping secrets. And if someone asks you to keep something secret, you have to do it, right? If you promise someone not to tell, you have to keep your promise. I was just keeping my promise. I didn't know that something bad could happen. Pietro said it would all be okay, as long as I didn't tell anyone.

It was a week ago.

I was in my room, which is right next to Pietro's, and I was thinking about how big the sky is and wondering why it never falls down on our heads. I think about stuff like that sometimes. Sometimes I think about the sky. Sometimes I think about the ocean, and I wonder why it never just flows up over the beaches and covers the whole world. Or if I think about the world, which is round, I wonder why we don't all just slip off the sides and fall into space. See, I know that the world is round. I'm not stupid.

And I was sitting in my room and I heard the phone ringing. Lance wasn't home, and he's always the one who answers the phone because he's in charge. But since he wasn't home, and no one else was home except for me, there was no one to answer the phone. And my mom always taught me to answer the phone and be very polite and not just let it ring and I even know how to take messages. Well, I used to take messages. I can't really hold a pen any more, my hands are too big. But anyway.

I answered the phone and said, "Hello?"

And Pietro's voice said, "Freddy, thank god, I was hoping you would answer."

He sounded terrible. And he told me that I needed to come and get him. I asked him why and he wouldn't answer. He told me to go out of the house, turn left and walk for a while, and then turn right on the dirt road that leads out into the empty fields where he likes to go running. I figured that's what he was doing, running, and I wondered why he wanted me to come get him. I asked him why and he wouldn't answer. So I set out walking.

It was cold out. I was wearing a jacket that Lance bought for me at a garage sale because it was big enough to fit me. You know that Lance bought that jacket with his own money? If I ever had a big brother, I would want him to be just like Lance. The road was long and empty. I don't know where that road leads. I only walked it that one time, and I hated it. It was really scary, but I'll never tell anyone that I was scared because I don't get scared. I'm the Blob. I'm unhurtable and unscareable.

I saw Pietro. He was sitting on the side of the road all flopped out like a rag doll, leaning back on his hands with his head tipped back to look at the sky. I wondered if he was wondering about the sky, like I do sometimes. He heard me coming and looked up and smiled, and I've never seen anyone smile like that. It was a smile that seemed to say, "I am more glad to see you than I would be to see anyone else in the whole world."

"Pietro," I said. "What are you doing?"

And he said, "It's a long story, Freddy boy." (He calls me Freddy boy and I don't mind because he likes giving people nicknames.) He said, "I was out running, but something just sort of, uh, gave out. I'm not sure what happened, but I figure I just haven't been getting enough sleep, you know?"

He smiled, and I saw that there was blood on his lips, like from a nosebleed. I didn't say anything about it. He seemed kind of scared, but I wasn't sure. I just asked what he wanted me to do.

"Well, the thing is, Freddy boy," (when he calls me Freddy boy twice in a row then there must be something wrong) "I don't think I can walk."

So that's why he was sitting on the side of the road like a rag doll. He looked really, really, really tired, like it was taking all of his strength to lift his head and look at me. Then he held out one hand and said, "Think I could get a lift?"

And I said, "No problem, Pietro."

So I bent down and I picked him up in my arms. Pietro is very small and light, so it wasn't hard at all. And as I started walking home, he sort of settled in and leaned against me and sighed. I think he was embarrassed, but he was also really grateful. It really was no problem, though. I didn't mind. When people ask me for help, I like to give it. It makes me feel useful. I can be changing a flat tire or carrying an exhausted friend home; it doesn't matter. As long as I'm helping.

He talked the whole way home, even though he was really tired, like he didn't want there to be any quiet. He was making jokes about the whole thing, about how he needed to get more sleep, stuff like that.

And then he said, "Hey, uh, Freddy? Don't tell anyone about this, okay?"

"Why not?" I said.

"I just don't want them to, you know, freak out. You know, Wanda'll yell at me for not getting any sleep, and Lance'll be mad because... Well, I don't know. But they'll get mad, even though it's no big deal. I'm really fine, I just need to get more sleep."

"Okay."

"You promise to keep it a secret?"

And I promised. That's one of the things I've done that makes me worry that I might really be stupid. I promised not to tell anyone that Pietro was in trouble. That is so stupid.

But how could I have known? I didn't know. Pietro was acting like he was fine. And it makes me so mad, because everything could have been different if only he had a little sign over his head that said, "I need help." Because he did need help, and maybe if I had said something a week ago, it wouldn't be too late.

But now it is too late. I know some things. I know that when someone gets sicker and sicker for a whole week, then it's really bad. I know that if you can catch a sickness right at the beginning then you might have a chance at stopping it, but if it goes on too long without any help, then you can't do anything about it.

I wish I could go back in time, like with a time machine, and tell someone that Pietro needed help. I wish that I hadn't made that promise. But you know what Lance says, if wishes were riches then there wouldn't be any beggars left to make up philosophical phrases about.

So I have to let go.

I'm sorry, Pietro, but I have to let you go. I can't let your death tear me apart. I know that it will hurt everyone really badly when you die, like they're all going to get shot at the same time with the same bullet. I don't want to get shot. So I'm letting go of you now, before it's too late to save me.

You were a really good friend to me, Pietro.

Thank you for all the Icees and the games of checkers-chess-poker.

I'm sorry I couldn't help you.

I will miss you.

Goodbye.

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	31. Can We Ever Be Healed?

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Still breathing. Guess who's gonna meet Edward Albee? Mwah. That's right. ME. Rock on, Great Plains Theatre Conference-style.

I like this chapter a lot. I hope you all do, too.

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Lots of good ideas come to people in the shower.

Hank McCoy was not one of these people. Being completely covered in fur made showers a not-entirely pleasant experience, and he was usually so focused on just getting through the torture that he didn't have time for any of those I-was-shampooing-my-hair-when-suddenly-eureka! moments.

However, he was quite prone to breakfast revelations. Munching on a bagel, he could at any time be struck with a lightning bolt of inspiration. It had happened twice while eating a bowl of Grape-Nuts. These could be good ideas great or small, important or irrelevant, but they always came during his morning meal.

He was slicing a grapefruit for himself that morning when the knife slipped and nicked his finger. Holding the paw to his mouth and instinctively sucking on the wound the way injured children do, he tasted the bitter copper of his own blood. It stung from the citrus, but that also gave the blood a strange sweet aftertaste.

And it was then that he had his I-was-cutting-a-grapefruit-when-suddenly-eureka! moment.

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Wanda woke to the distinct sense of someone watching her. The urge to sit bolt upright and cover herself with her blanket didn't even occur to her. She simply rolled over slowly, settling onto her side to sleepily observe her observer.

"I dreamed of fire all night," Johnny whispered to her in the static air of a bedroom at sunrise. "Fire running through my veins."

"There's fire in my veins," Wanda whispered to him as the air became lighter and lighter from their speaking. "Pietro's fire."

"You remind me so much of him," he sighed from where he sat in a chair he had pulled up to her bedside while she slept.

She crooked her arm under her head to prop herself up just a little bit and prevent her from dozing off again. The window shade was still drawn but sunlight was fighting to get into the room, creating a white halo around the shade and filling the room with muted shadows. Johnny was staring at her. No, that wasn't the word; he was gazing at her. His eyes ached, and that pain was as visible to her as a bloody bandage around his head would be. The green of those eyes was lost in the strange twilight so that they looked black. It was a death's head crowned with red fire, and it made Wanda wonder if she were still dreaming.

"Are you real?" she spoke in a low, curious voice.

"I think so," he shrugged, and it was so human and confused that she knew at once it was no dream. "I'm starting to wonder, though."

"Me, too."

They laughed together in hushed, breathless tones like children staying up past curfew who fear the entrance of an angry parent. Then the pain jumped out of his eyes and went to his mouth, so that even though he frowned, the agony in his gaze had faded away.

"I miss your brother," he confessed softly. "And you remind me of him so much."

"I miss him, too." It went without saying, but she said it anyway because it felt good to do so.

"I want him to come back. I need to see him again. He's the only friend I ever—" he raked a hand through the fire around his head, and she realized drowsily that it was just his hair. "I don't have much time."

"Are you leaving soon?"

He smiled, and the pain jumped back up into his eyes, his cheerful mouth not a sufficient disguise for the great sorrow that hid behind it.

"Maybe. I came here to see your brother again before I..." he paused, turned his eyes away from her. "Leave."

Her eyes followed his hands as they scratched his knees with great anxiety. They were ghost hands, white and thin and poetic in their movements, and she became hypnotized by them. She was startled to notice a blemish; a strange dark lesion on the back of the right one.

"What's that?" she pointed to it.

"The mark of the beast," he laughed, a fake laugh. "I found it this morning. It's a new one."

"Oh," she tilted her head, puzzled, even though she somehow understood. "That's too bad."

"It's a damn shame," he nodded. "You know how everyone always has big plans for the future? Gonna go out there and be somebody. I was like that. I was going to be a famous something or other. Now I can't even remember my last name and I'm on my final lap around the track. Funny how things work out, huh?"

"Isn't life a bitch?" she sat up now, wrapping her blanket around her shoulders for warmth. "I mean, did we ever ask for this? Did you ever wake up one day and say, hey, I think I'd like to be a complete outcast from the human race and have mutant powers that could eventually take over my life? No? Wow, that's funny, because neither did I."

"I want my life back!" his voice burned with injustice. "They took it all away from me and left me, what? This bag of bones with no warranty. I wish I could sue somebody, but I would settle for shooting them in the face."

"Stabbing them in the guts." she agreed heartily.

"Breaking their nose with my fist."

"Running them over with my car."

"Strangling them."

"Setting them on fire."

"Fire!" At her mention of his beloved element, his back arched and his hands flexed open and closed, eyes closed in fond memory. But then he shuddered in pain. "My bones ache to think about it!" he rasped. "It's this... this thing inside of me, this—" he pointed to the lesion on the back of his hand. "It's taking away the only thing I ever loved."

"They're taking away the only thing I ever loved," Wanda said darkly, and she thought of Pietro so hard that she could smell that damn cologne and it stung her eyes so that they filled up with tears which was only because of that smell and not because she was crying because she refused to cry.

"I don't believe in anything anymore." Johnny said dully.

And she immediately wanted to agree with him, but it simply wasn't true. For all of her morbid pessimism and dark predictions for the future, there was still something she clung to, because she could still feel Pietro's heart pounding somewhere deep inside of her. In word and deed she had expressed nothing but despair, but for all of her efforts her heart was still stubbornly hopeful.

"I believe in something." Her voice was reverent, distant.

"At least someone does," he said sadly.

"Do you think that we can ever be healed?" she wondered, not really asking him but just asking herself. "I mean, yeah, I know, everyone says that time heals all wounds, but is that really true?"

"They say that love heals," he muttered. "But that means there's not a hope in hell for me, which is okay I guess because that's where I'm headed anyway."

"Hell." the word tasted foul on her tongue, and it made the hot water in her eyes overflow and spill down her face. "Say hi to Pietro for me. You'll be the perfect pair of devils."

"You have no confidence in him." he said, wounded.

Then he stood, marched over to her window, and threw open the shade. The room was filled with dazzlingly white light, just how she imagined at the end of that proverbial tunnel, and she threw up her hands to shield her eyes against it. Johnny was a blazing silhouette, his hair ignited by the sudden illumination, his eyes brilliantly green and burning hot. He seemed almost supernatural, his fierce posture coupled with the shock of the light on her ill-prepared eyes.

"Devils and angels," he said grimly. "Were all human once."

Then, either because her eyes adjusted to the brightness or his anger simply faded away, he looked human again, pale and sickly. There were dark circles around his eyes that she hadn't noticed earlier because of the dim lighting. His lip was bleeding; he'd been chewing on it through the whole conversation. He held out his arms, empty hands palm up, and whispered, "I was human once."

Suddenly he was gone. A great chill swept over Wanda; she had never spoken with a dead man before. The haunting was over for now, but the nightmares would remain, that much she was sure of. She heard the light step of Johnny's ghost descending the staircase and shuddered. For one insane moment she imagined him as a transparent fire demon, his flaming arms outstretched to meet Pietro's shivering white phantom as they collided on some forsaken level of the inferno.

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There's only so much one mind can take.

Pietro felt like a pencil sketch that someone was slowly erasing. Like in those old cartoons, the eraser started at his feet and worked its way upward while he hollered in protest. Without his legs he could only wave his arms and cry for help, but the Big Eraser From The Sky was deaf to his pleas. It was slowly rubbing out his torso, almost to his heart, and once he lost that he would be nothing!

What if the Eraser chose to leave him that way? Unable to run with his legs gone, unable to love with his heart removed. Nothing left to live for!

His head snapped to the side like an electronic toy with a fried circuit. All of his movements were jerky and unstable, his sanity now a mere puddle of consciousness that was still being mercilessly drained away. The thoughts that ricocheted through his head like pinballs were impossibly fast and difficult to catch, and once he managed to grab them they proved to be slippery, too. The only thought he could get a firm hold of was that it would be better to go quickly than slowly drift into complete madness.

So he went into the kitchen and found a big blue guy cutting up a grapefruit. Actually, he had left the grapefruit and was frozen in mid-run, a thrilled and excited expression on his face, a silent cry of "eureka!" that even a crazy person could understand. Well, goodie for him, he's had a happy thought. Happy thoughts are what help you to fly. That, and pixie dust.

What really interested Pietro was the knife left behind on the counter. He picked it up and even contemplated attempting to juggle it, but he only had one knife and everyone knows you have to have at least three to make a juggling act entertaining.

Since he couldn't juggle, he decided to kill himself instead.

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	32. Thicker Than Water

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Another chapter for my lovelies. This chapter could be subtitled: "The One With The Pseudo-Scientific-Medical Babble." Enjoy.

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Stand still and listen; the doctor is speaking. Everyone give your eyes and ears to the man with the clipboard, because he could be the one that saves the day. Hank explained his plan with rapid intensity to those gathered; Charles, Ororo, Logan, and the brooding Erik.

"As near as I can figure, the problem is all in Pietro's blood. That's where Mr. Lensherr injected his speed cocktail, and that's probably where the danger still is. His blood is pumped full of all these drugs that triggered his mutant gene but are now keeping him trapped in it."

"So what you're saying is," Logan drawled. "Is not only do we have to catch Speedy in the first place, but we gotta bleed him out?"

"We could try hemapheresis, where we remove blood to purify it, but his blood might be too tainted to salvage. A transfusion could be his only hope." Hank explained. "If we could get rid of enough of the tainted blood and replace it with clean, it could purge his system enough to keep him stable in real time."

"What do you suggest we do, Hank?" Charles asked quietly.

"Yesterday the problem was how to keep Pietro with us once we slowed him down. I had the plan all along to use some sort of powerful tranquilizer to stop him for a little while, but I had no idea how to keep it that way. Now that I've connected the two, I need to prepare the tranquilizer and then the transfusion."

Ororo asked the question on all their minds: "Whose blood?"

"Mine." said Erik firmly. "It will be my blood."

Everyone gave him a simultaneous glance. Hank's was furious, a silent "how dare you?" that spoke louder than words. Logan's was skeptical and Ororo's was aloof. Only Charles seemed sympathetic, and Erik begrudged that look the most of all.

"Do you know your son's blood type?" Hank snapped. "Or were you too busy filling it with drugs?"

"That information can be obtained from a driver's license," Xavier said sternly. "This cannot turn into a battle. A young man's life is at stake; we have to remember that. The cause is not important, only the fact that he needs our help."

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They drifted to her side like they had never been separated.

When Wanda entered the dining room for breakfast, the first person to join her was Todd, loyally falling into step beside her and sitting down next to her at the table. She felt her hair ruffled from behind and turned to see Lance giving her a weary welcome smile. He sat on the other side of her. Fred sat across from them as though trying to keep all three in his sights to prevent anything from happening to them.

Even after breakfast the three boys stayed in sort of protective ring around her; if anyone wished to speak with Wanda, they would have to get past her trio of satellites. The first person to actually approach, however, was someone that the satellites scattered before; it was Logan.

"Hey, kid," he said to Wanda in that disconcertingly nonchalant way of his. "The Professor needs to speak with you."

- - -

It all came down to blood.

Of course they were a match; Wanda had no doubt in her mind that the exact same flowed through her veins as her brother's. Hank explained the whole procedure in careful detail, which she supposed was a comfort, even though his detached scientific way of speaking was sort of creeping her out. It all felt like an out of body experience because she could hardly believe that there was a chance of saving Pietro. In fact, when Hank finished his talking, he had to wave his hand carefully in front of her face to get a reaction from her.

"Are you all right?" he asked gently.

"I don't know how to answer that." she shrugged.

"All right, then. I'll need to take a sample from you to begin screening tests."

"What do you mean, screening tests?" she was suddenly very alert.

"Just because you have the same blood type doesn't guarantee a safe transfusion. I have to screen the blood for health reasons, safety reasons—"

"That would mean waiting!" she jumped from her chair, furious. "You expect me to just wait around for you to perform a bunch of stupid tests? You expect Pietro to wait?"

"Wanda, it's procedure—"

"No!" Arms crossed, chin lifted, she took a stand. "No tests. We are going to start as soon as possible."

"Wanda, you have to think about the ramifications of this decision."

"What, are you implying that it could be dangerous? You don't understand. There is not a single thing in my body that could harm Pietro. Nothing. There's no danger at all."

- - -

It all came down to blood.

Erik's heart smoldered with envy at the gift Wanda was able to give to her brother, the gift that he should be giving. Why couldn't it be him? This would have been the perfect redemption, the ultimate penance for his sins. But perhaps this was the true punishment, this denial of his only chance.

Pietro was his son. Half of his blood was in that boy, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough! No matter what Erik seemed to do, it could never repair the damage he had inflicted with his own hands. There was no guidelines for him, no set of rules for a father struggling to reconnect with his abused child. The gap between them had grown too wide to cross, and his last effort to build a bridge had been thwarted.

What about the blood? Would it alone be enough to save them, the very fact that they shared at least a portion of the same? Maybe, maybe not. He had no way of knowing. His mind was filled with images of blood, buckets of it, swirls of it, stains of it. It was making his stomach turn, and for a wild moment he was quite certain he was going to throw up.

A sudden touch on his arm made him jump; it burned. It was Johnny, looking a little better than he did this morning when Erik saw him rising weakly from the library couch, but still with the appearance of a very sick young man. Erik considered how his appearance had been gradually declining with his health as the disease seemed to move onto the next stage. It was stressful for Erik to have one more reminder of his failures paraded in front of him.

"What is it?" he snapped tersely.

"Hello to you, too," Johnny retreated a few steps, wounded. "Geez, no need to be so friendly. I'm only your minion, after all."

Erik sighed, composed himself, and repeated in a much gentler tone, "What is it?"

"Just keeping you updated, that's all."

Johnny held out his right hand palm down, and Erik almost physically recoiled in horror when he saw the new lesion on the back of it. As it was his stomach lurched again and his guilt threatened to strangle him.

"John..." he said feebly.

"No worries, mate." Johnny shook his fiery head sadly. "A fella comes to terms with a lot of things when he finally just accepts that what will be, will be."

"Que sera, sera." Erik echoed.

They stood silently facing each other, eyes averted in respect of the other's pain. The quiet that descended was the quiet that fell on hospital rooms when the plug has been pulled and there's nothing to do but wait.

"You know," Johnny said with a heavy sigh. "I always thought of you as a father."

Erik didn't answer. He couldn't.

"We sort of are related," the boy continued. "If you think about it."

With a slow, tentative gesture, Johnny reached out and took Erik's hand, turning it palm up so that the concentration camp numbers were laid naked and bare for all the world to see. He held his own scarred hand up next to it for comparison.

The effect was striking and suffocating. Both of these marks were cruelties inflicted by other men because of difference in race or powers. Both of these marks did not just scar their owner on the outside, but had been carved deep into their wounded spirits, crippling them both in one fashion or another. Both of these marks were made as punishment for something beyond their recipient's control.

"We've been through the fire, you and me," Johnny murmured thoughtfully. "We've been struck with the hammers and pounded into shape, shoved into the coals and dragged out again, dunked underwater and drawn out in a cloud of steam and sparks. But here we are, eh? Still breathing."

He looked up and their eyes met. Erik was daunted in the face of such deep, immovable sadness. It was like a physical weight on his shoulders and he fought to remain on his feet. He was granted relief when the sadness was veiled by a strange smile.

"Funny old world." Johnny said, almost fondly, the keeper of some great mysterious secret. "Que sera, sera."

And he walked away quite calmly as though he hadn't just shattered Erik's heart.

- - -

It all came down to blood.

Think how much of it there will be! Pietro giggled excitedly. At the speed he was going, with his heart purring like the engine of a race car, well, all it would take was one neat slice across the wrist and there'd be a fountain of the stuff! A scarlet cascade of life force splashing all over the floors, the walls, the ceiling if he waved his arm enthusiastically enough! What a sight it would be.

He wondered if he could paint a self-portrait before it killed him. A stick figure, vanished from the waist down after the attack of the Eraser, arms flung out in supplication and mouth yawning open in a great big silent scream. He could even draw a picture of his heart, crisscrossed with jagged breaks and tears. That would be quite the little mural. Maybe they would hang it in a museum. Or a mausoleum. Didn't really matter.

In a fit of theatrics, he decided to seek out Wanda one last time and say goodbye to her. It seemed only fair, after all, since she was pretty much the only one who would miss him anyway. He walked all over the house, waving the knife in front of him and making lightsaber noises, until he saw her sitting on the couch next to Lance. Lance, Lance, Ants-in-his-Pants. That rhymed. It made Pietro laugh.

Standing before Wanda, he held the knife over his wrist with the same grace and care of a violinist about to draw his bow across the strings, a painter about to add the final stroke to his masterpiece. He smiled at her adoringly and said, "TTFN! Ta-ta for now!"

- - -


	33. Slow Burn

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: This chapter was tough to write. It might feel a bit disjointed and rough around the edges, but hey, he's supposed to be insane anyway, right?

From Johnny's POV.

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What will be, will be.

Que sera, sera.

You can say it in any language and it still sounds the same. All of eternity is wrapped up in that one sentence; birth, suffering, shame, redemption, glory, death. Doesn't matter what happens or how, because what will be, will be.

Looking behind me, I see a single trail of footprints across a vast and empty desert. Looking ahead of me, I see that the desert continues on into forever, and I guess I just have to keep walking and walking and walking until I fall off a cliff or just drop dead in my tracks.

The pain gets worse every day. It didn't hurt at first, but now my bones ache, my head hurts, my skin crawls with a zillion prickly stings. I'm so sick. Sick people should be resting in hospitals, getting green Jell-o brought to them on plastic trays, having their pillows fluffed and watching TV all day. That's where I should be. I should be resting, please, let me rest because I'm so tired and sick and I don't think I can make it through one more day.

But I keep waking up every morning. Heart still beating. Body still aching. Sweat pouring down my back and vision starting to get blurry.

What will be, will be.

And I just feel so lonely sometimes because no one understands. I'm crazy, I'm insane, I'm a complete nutcase so maybe it's better off if I die and spare them all the stress and annoyance of having to deal with me. Yeah, I'm crazy, I want to say to them. But you'd be crazy, too. Think of it this way; maybe you're all crazy and I'm the only sane one left. Is that a little too Catch-22? Am I getting ahead of myself? Is there anyone who even cares?

You know, I think there's only two other people in the world who can come close to grasping this situation.

One of them lives here in this mansion. His name is Wolverine and he has big shiny claws that come shooting out of his hands. I've heard that he doesn't know where these claws came from or who gave them to him. He doesn't remember. Isn't that funny? Because I don't know who gave me this disease and I don't remember much, either. We're almost the same, except his mad scientists gave him a new and wonderful weapon, and my mad scientists gave me a death sentence.

Funny old world. Que sera, sera.

The other person is Pietro. And that's funny, too, because not only is he one of the two people who can come close to grasping the situation, but he's also my friend. Now, Pietro was never strapped down to a table to be a mad scientist's pincushion. Or maybe he was. I don't know. He is a living secret. A walking, talking secret, except that he doesn't talk much. Mostly he just listens to me when I talk. Anyway, anyway, anyway!

Pietro understands lots of things, including me. He is very good at seeing things. I'm not saying that he has like telescope vision or can see stuff that's really far away. No, Pietro sees important things. He reads people like books. Reads them like the newspaper. There are sentences and words written all over people's faces and on their voices, and Pietro can see those words, or he feels them like Braille, and he keeps what he reads all locked away inside of himself, a secret forever.

I wonder what is written on me. I'll bet it says something like: Hi! I am very sick. I am also a little bit crazy, but don't worry, I don't bite, ha ha. Will you listen to me, please? I need someone to listen to me or I might go all-the-way crazy. Maybe you can even try to understand, which is the most help anyone could ever give to me. Thank you.

I wish I could read people. I've been practicing. I have been learning from Pietro. He hasn't actually taught me anything, but I'm a quick learner.

Do you know that I lost all of my words while I was strapped on that table? I don't know how long I was down there. But they wouldn't let me talk at all, and little by little, my words started to slip away from me. I couldn't talk and I couldn't think. There were no words down there on the table, just feelings. If I felt pain, I knew only pain. If I felt hunger, it was my whole vocabulary. And when I was pulled off the table and carried up back into the real world, I had no words. I remember that much. I remember because Magneto said, "What is your name, boy?" And I tried to answer, but all I could do was make this stupid choking noise, like an animal, and I was more ashamed of that than my naked, skinny, dying body.

Anyway. I only told that story because I wanted to tell you how I'm a quick learner. Because, see, Magneto had to teach me all my words again. Let me tell you, I was more hungry for that than I was for any food or water. I gobbled up those words like a feast, like a banquet of talking. I never thought I would get enough. Some of my favorite words are: bottle, curb, fantastic, bubble, splash.

So I am trying to learn from Pietro the art of reading people. The words are there, the sentences are there, but you have to be a true artist to read them. I'm trying to learn by watching him, seeing how he does it. What he does is, when people are talking to him, he looks at them with both of his eyes, and he uses his eyes all the way. Sometimes when people are talking, they only look at each other with half of their eye power, because they don't really care. Pietro looks hard and steady and carefully, and as he listens his eyes will make tiny, tiny glances over that face, always coming back to the eyes, but sweeping over the entire face to look for the clues and the details. And suddenly, the words appear. I can always see when that happens because once he sees the words, Pietro will lean forward just a little bit, so he can read everything there is to read. And he memorizes what he sees and locks it away in a secret place deep inside.

I tried it today on Magneto, on Macavity. I looked at him with both of my eyes, and I used my eyes all the way. I looked all over for the clues and the details. And guess what? Guess what? You'll never guess what happened next. It worked! I swear it worked! I saw words! Here is what the words said.

Hello. I am very sad. I am also very guilty (or maybe it was lonely, but they are almost the same thing) and I need someone to be with me or I will give up forever. Will you please just stand here next to me and let me know that I am not alone? Thank you.

So I did. I tried to help him the way I wanted someone to help me. And who knows? Maybe it worked. Maybe it didn't. I might never know.

And maybe there are actually three people in the world who can come close to grasping the situation.

It was so hard at first. You get so used to those straps around your wrists, the cold metal under your back. It's your life, your whole world, and when it's taken away you don't know what to do. You wake up in the middle of the night and your arms can suddenly move freely, and instead of solid metal you can feel yourself sinking into something soft and foreign, and you're terrified that it's some new experiment and it's only going to get worse because it's been getting worse for so long that how could it possibly be getting better? So you start screaming because you can't remember who you are and you just want to die.

Then there's some kid with crazy white hair pushing you back onto the bed and telling you to shut up, stupid, you're safe now so you can just cool it, already, some people are trying to sleep! And you don't know who he is or where he came from but he could just possibly be an angel or maybe a demon but it doesn't matter because you're not alone. And as you start to breathe again, you become aware of the sweat on your back and the blankets over your legs and all of a sudden your brain catches up with the rest of you and goes, shut up, you idiot, your name is Johnny and you are in your own bed and his name is Pietro, he's not an angel or a demon he's just your friend, which is even better than the first two.

Pietro touches his fingers to my neck and says, "Geez, man, your heart's going even faster than mine!" And I sort of laugh and sort of cry because I was so scared two seconds ago and now everything is fine. "Relax, buddy," says Pietro. "You're all right." Then it's like every single bone in my body turns into jelly and I just collapse back on the bed, taking long deep breaths like Magneto taught me to do when I have a panic attack. That's what it is,but Pietro says, "Bad dream, huh?" I just nod. Panic attacks are stupid, because you panic at nothing. I just pretend I had a reason to be scared.

Then Pietro smiles and says, "Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer were a notorious couple of cats..."

The poem is like a rope being offered down into the pit, and I grab it with both hands and start climbing. "As knockabout clowns, quick-change comedians, tightrope walkers, and acrobats."

"Incurably given to rove," says Pietro, skipping a few lines but that's okay because he thumps me on the arm like we're really partners in crime. "That's us, buddy."

And he smiles at me in the dark, but it's not a real smile, not a happy smile. It's a sad, distant smile, like he knows something about me that I don't and he feels sorry for me. This is the first time that I catch Pietro reading me. I watch his eyes that shine in the dark like a cat's, and they're flicking back and forth across my face, scanning me, searching me, and then suddenly they stop and his eyes change. There's something in them that I don't really recognize. I think it might be affection, but also pity, and a little bit of... what? His eyes tell me that he understands, that he has suffered like I have suffered, and I wish I knew if that were true.

Hey, Pietro? Are you going to come back soon? Please? Because I really don't think I'm going to be around much longer. Of course, I thought I was done for last night, and here I am today, still hanging around. Maybe this will be forever, this aching creaking weak tired sick existence. Maybe I'll kill myself. But no, of course I won't. I'm too much of a coward for that.

But I'd like to talk to Pietro again. I want to say... I don't know. I just want to talk to him, because out of everyone I've ever talked to, only Pietro looks like he's really listening. He uses his ears and his eyes and he pays attention. He cares. He doesn't treat me like I'm crazy or speaking gibberish or whatever. He's a good guy and I want just one more time to have him listen to me.

Also, I can't remember all the words anymore. I can get up to "Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of working together, and some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of the time..." Some of the time what? What does it mean? What happens next? I can't remember! I'm trying so hard to remember that my eyeballs burn and my head throbs and I think I'm going to explode but I just can't remember!

Oh, man, I'm really crazy. I'm crawling the walls. I'm chewing my own leg off. I'm so completely crazy because it's safer that way. I don't know how Wolverine does it, go on day after day full of questions and never finding answers and knowing that someone somewhere has done something terrible to you without your permission they went inside of you and changed everything around and there's nothing you can do about it except go on living and never knowing why, why did you do this to me? Somehow Wolverine has hung onto his mind, stayed human, and I know that every day it's a fight not to just give in.

I gave in. I'm a coward that way. So many questions, never going to be answered, that gnawing burning aching knowledge that not even my body belonged to me anymore, it belonged to someone I didn't even know who went inside and made it theirs. I just, I just, I just couldn't deal with it!

So I let go. I gave in to the insanity that let me be free. My body is just a shell, now, carrying around my wild and wonderful and unstoppable thoughts. All that matters is fire, don't you see? The fire keeps me alive, now. I feel it all the time, whenever it's near, whenever it's close enough for me to reach. I let the fire take away my thoughts, take me far away from my wretched useless corpse.

But now I don't even have that, do I? It's gotten so bad, I'm so tired and sick and everything, that I can't even, I can't even, I can't even do that anymore! I reach out for the fire, but I'm so weak that it just slips between my fingers. I try and I try and I try, but there's nothing left inside. This disease, this horrible virus that they wanted to kill mutants, well, it's done worse than kill me. It's taken away the only thing I ever loved, this power that for a little while made me feel like more than what I was.

Empty, now. Alone in the desert. No words. I'm scared my wordswill slip away again, taken by sickness that makes me dizzy and tired all the time. Soon I'll just be a gibbering crazy idiot running around claiming that once upon a time, he was powerful. Once upon a time, he rode upon a pillar of flames and had all fire at his command. Once upon a time, he was a creature of legend, a mighty and unstoppable force of nature.

And now he is just a sad, sick, crazy man.

Oh, well.

What will be, will be.

- - -


	34. Countdown

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Hello from college. Yes, it's hard. No, this story isn't over yet. Think happy thoughts and be safe.

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It was time to let go.

Pietro slid the knife down through the air, tenderly, delicately, the blade touching down onto his pale pale skin about to release his red red blood to spill it all over the sad sad carpet. He kept his eyes riveted on Wanda's face. He couldn't look down, couldn't look at the knife because he might lose his nerve and this was really for the best he just wanted to be looking at Wanda when it happened.

Wanda! He trembled. This was for the best. It really was for the best. Obviously. Of course. Definitely. Don't think about it. Just do it! You're such a pathetic coward! Do it do it do it!

And then it happened.

One moment, Wanda was staring down at the floor, one of her hands resting in one of Lance's, all thoughtful and sad and distant. But suddenly, so suddenly that even Pietro didn't see it happen, she was looking right at him! She was looking into his eyes, through the time and the space and the infinity between them, and she was staring right into his eyes and past the madness and past the confusion and past the despair and directly into the heart of the real Pietro that still clung on somehow deep inside.

Pietro jerked back as though he'd been physically struck. He cried out; a harsh, animalistic yelp of agony. Looking down, he saw a knife balanced precariously on an ivory surface indented under its weight, just about to rupture under the pressure. It was a blade pressed against his wrist, and he was holding it! He looked back into Wanda's eyes and saw accusation and disappointment. You coward. Taking the easy way out. Snap out of it. Get a grip. Just hang on a little while longer.

Filled with guilt and shame, Pietro released his grip on the knife that was suddenly burning hot. The moment it left his hands it became suspended on the air, no longer in Top Gear, perfectly frozen on its descent to the floor. It hung there on invisible threads, hovering Macbeth-style: is this a dagger I see before me? It certainly is. Now run, run away before you do something stupid! Run, you idiot!

Pietro turned on his heel and fled.

- - -

Everyone jumped when the knife clattered to the floor. Todd screamed and Wanda clutched Lance's hand so tight that she almost broke his fingers.

"Holy shit!" Todd spluttered, clutching the skinny chest that his heart threatened to burst out of. "What just happened?"

They all looked around. The source of the clatter was not immediately apparent. Then Freddy pointed at the floor and said, "Where'd that knife come from?"

Wanda was on her knees at once, picking up the weapon; the handle seemed to burn her skin on contact. Fierce! Some residue of energy leapt from the knife and into her hands, a prickle, a tingle of Pietro that raced up and down her spine and rattled her right down to the core.

"Do you think..." Lance said nervously. "He was going to...?"

"Yes," she quietly answered. "He was. But not anymore."

"How do you know?"

"Because he made a choice."

She held the knife like an ancient, fragile treasure, as though a thousand years of history were trapped in that blade and if she could only find a way to release them then she would have all the answers to every question she had ever asked. The sharp edge of the knife shivered with electricity, with the promise of forever, with a thousand heartbeats of doubt and loneliness.

"Please," she said hoarsely. "Someone take this away from me."

No one moved, no one dared. Then Todd loyally reached out his hand and took the knife upon himself, clutching the handle in a white-knuckled grip. There was some sort of darkness that surrounded the weapon, the horrible cruel knowledge that it had very nearly claimed the life of one of the only people he trusted and cared for. He wanted to destroy the thing, break it, burn it, melt it into a harmless puddle that could never hurt anyone again.

In the end, he just went out into one of the massive courtyards that surrounded the mansion and dug a hole. He put the knife in the hole, spat on it, then buried it deep. No stone, no nothing; an unmarked grave for the unused murder weapon.

By the time he came back into the house, Dr. McCoy was in the living room and he was saying, "Wanda, we're ready for you."

- - -

"The way I'm acting," Lance said shakily. "You'd think I was the one getting blood drawn."

He was not allowed inside the med lab. Neither were Todd or Lance. In fact, there was quite a little crowd gathered around the little glass window that showed them, like a TV screen, the image of Dr. McCoy carefully putting a needle into Wanda's arm. It made Lance woozy to look at and he turned away, pale and sweating. Freddy patted him on the back carefully.

"Oh, man," Lance's voice was weak and nervous. "Blood, man. It's crazy."

"I always wanted to donate blood," Jean said, half to herself. "When I was old enough."

"Magneto told us that they can detect the mutant gene when they screen the blood." Todd muttered. "Too dangerous."

Then he remembered that Magneto was standing in the same room, and he cowered behind Freddy, fearing some kind of retribution. He received none. He didn't even get an acknowledgment; Erik's eyes were riveted on the thin stream of crimson that ran from his daughter's arm and into a plastic bag. There was the blood that could save Pietro. His heart ached, every throbbing beat answered by a beep from the machine attached to Wanda. For the first time in over a decade, their hearts kept time together.

Johnny was leaning with his back against the wall, his eyes closed, trying to synchronize his shallow breathing with those same beeps. He had closed his eyes because his vision was blurred and it was giving him a headache. He was leaning against the wall because at this moment his legs could not support him. Logan was standing near enough to hear him whispering over and over, "Some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of the time... Some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of the time..."

Tucked away from all of them in the cocoon of the med lab, Wanda quietly watched the blood as it swirled and danced through the tube. She could feel it leaving her, like little pieces of herself were melting away and drifting up into the air; imagined the perfectly round red droplets suspended in front of her, bobbing and weaving in the zero-gravity, and when she touched them they would burst into smaller droplets.

Dr. McCoy said, "I wish you would reconsider. I don't think it's safe to perform a transfusion without first screening the blood for—"

"For what?" she snapped. "What exactly are you looking for?"

"There are many impurities that can be passed to the recipient during such a procedure."

"Oh, like his blood is so pure right now." Feeling suddenly dizzy, she pressed one hand to her forehead. "Listen to me. He's dying. He's really dying. There's only a little while left before he... before it's too late. I won't let you waste my time and his just so you can feel safe. Pietro has never felt safe in his life, and neither have I. We don't care about the risks. I think you're actually the only person in the whole damn mansion who wants to delay this thing, so unless you want Pietro's death on your conscience, just shut your stupid mouth and do your doctor thing."

Hank said nothing.

- - -

There were two Pietros, now.

One of them was curled up on the bathroom floor, rocking back and forth, back and forth like he was up in the cradle on the treetop and the wind was getting stronger and stronger and stronger. The other Pietro was curled up in the mirror, doing pretty much the same thing.

"I'm a coward, I'm a coward, I'm a coward," Pietro chanted, forcing the words through chattering teeth, choking it out even when it felt like his throat was closing up from guilt and grief. "I'm a coward, I'm a coward, I'm a coward..."

The bathroom rug was blue. Blue like the ocean, blue like the sky, blue like the love in Wanda's eyes. Wanda. His fingers jerked out and grabbed onto the blue blue sky but it was just a rug which wasn't good enough. He twisted the threads in his hands, tearing them out one by one, but it was giving him a terrible headache and it took him a lot longer than it should have to realize that he was tearing out his hair. Snow white clouds for the ocean blue sky.

He stopped.

Rolled onto his back, dying cockroach style, clawing and kicking at the air, with weird inhuman sounds bubbling up from his chest and out of his mouth into a crazy bleating sobbing laughter.

"I'm a coward!" he cried, and when he looked at the Pietro in the mirror, he didn't argue.

Just a little bit longer. If he could just... stop himself... for a little longer. Then he'd either be dead or so insane that it wouldn't matter anymore. He tried to focus on remaining still. It felt like he was sinking through the carpet and into tomorrow; the shadows climbed up the walls, curling like smoke, dancing like demons, a thousand leering phantoms that promised him nothing but pain.

Pain, there really was pain; it was searing right through his middle like white fire, and when he looked down at his belly he could swear it had rotted away. There was a big gaping hole with steam rising from the edges where the fire had passed, oh god, he could see the carpet through that hole, could see his spine laid there like a horizontal Jenga tower. But when he went to touch it, he came in contact with something firm and warm, and suddenly his stomach was there again, oh look, there's my belly button, but the fire is still there how much of this is real and how much of this is a nightmare?

He was so hungry. He imagined his jaw coming unhinged to admit huge portions of food, a whole watermelon sliding down his elastic throat, leaving a huge bulge in his middle like a great big python. Like a snake he slithered out of the bathroom and down the hall, aiming again for the kitchen.

It was almost like little pieces of him were melting away and drifting up into the air.

When he reached the stairs, he fell. When he reached the bottom, he crawled, using his elbows like a soldier in a mud pit, inch by inch, I am a great and terrible snake who seeks to devour anything he may find! To amuse himself he made a low, persistent hissing sound.

The feeding frenzy was a blur. At the end of it he was kicking around the empty soda bottles like soccer balls, laughing because he felt alive again, he felt so alive that he could just climb the walls of the mansion, and when he reached the top he would just keep climbing up and up and up into the blue sky the color of Wanda's eyes...

Wanda?

He stopped his dance, confused, and said, "Who's Wanda?"

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	35. The Edge of the World

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: I can't believe we're almost there. Do you know that this story is what made me decide to become a writer full-time? Now here I am at college, studying writing, and I'm almost finished with the story that started it all. Wow.

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"What should I do now?" said Wanda, trembling as she saw the bag of her blood held in Dr. McCoy's hands.

"All you can do now is wait," said Hank sadly. "Wait and pray."

So she walked out of the med lab and into the anxious audience that had been huddled around the viewing window. Lance held out his arms for her and she stepped into the embrace naturally, the two of them moving with the grace of dancers into their proper positions. Lance was strong and solid and warm, and when she rested her head against his chest she could hear the steady thump of his heartbeat. She closed her eyes and counted one, two, three...

"You feeling okay, sweetums?" the nickname sounds forced, just like Todd's smile, as he patted her on the shoulder with a strange, fragile tenderness.

"I'm okay," she said to him, while Pietro's voice said somewhere deep inside: _for now._

"He's coming back, right?" Johnny was so eager, lurching away from the wall and taking delicate, wobbly steps towards her. "Mungojerrie's gonna come back now?"

She couldn't answer him, looked away from his approach, her arms tightening around Lance and her fingers twisting into his t-shirt. He stroked her back with gentle, rhythmic movements, and said in a low voice to Johnny, "We sure hope so."

"Okay," Johnny stopped, sensing that she didn't want him to come near. "You know, I don't feel so good."

He staggered abruptly, his center of balance suddenly yanked out from under him, his arms thrown out like a tightrope walker. Before he could fall, Freddy moved with surprising speed and confidence, catching Johnny and sweeping him up into powerful arms, cradling him close like he once held an exhausted Pietro a lifetime ago. This time was different; Pietro had felt cold and limp, but Johnny was burning hot, almost too hot to touch, and his body was trembling from head to toe.

"What should I do?" Freddy whispered to the dying creature in his arms. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know," Johnny said weakly. "I'm scared. Don't let me go."

With a great shudder he twisted in Freddy's arms, clinging to him desperately, pressed to him with a terrible urgency. Uncertainty flicked over the giant's face, but then he softened with a secret guilt, a failure to protect that he might be able to redeem himself for at last. He remembered a roadside promise, a long cold walk with a sick friend in his arms that he let go of too soon.

"Okay, little guy," he said gruffly. "I could carry you for a little while."

He sat down on the floor, settled his burden into a more comfortable position, then closed his eyes, lost in thought.

Logan growled. He could smell the sickness in the air, could smell the decay eating away at Johnny from the inside out. Unlike most scents, though, he didn't recognize this one. It smelled unnatural, chemical, a manufactured disease. The very idea of it unsettled him down to the core, and he shifted his weight to be ready for anything, and no matter what else happened in the room, he kept one sharp eye pinned on the timebomb that he alone was aware of.

"Wanda," said Erik in a low, embarrassed voice. "May I speak with you?"

"Sure, knock yourself out." she growled.

"May I speak with you..." he cleared his throat delicately. "Alone?"

"Whatever you have to say to me," She turned to face him but remained in Lance's embrace, leaning back against him with his arms wrapped protectively around her. "You can say in front of everybody."

Erik lowered his eyes, wounded, but accepted the humiliation as part of his punishment.

"I wanted to... apologize."

"For what?" she was merciless.

"For all the things I... for my failures as a father."

"And what failures were those?" Her eyes were like twin flames, blazing with rightful fury. "I want to hear you say it."

"Wanda—"

"Say it or I'll never forgive you."

The promise of forgiveness was an unexpected one; Erik looked up sharply, saw that she wasn't lying. She was willing to forgive him, but only if he laid his sins bare for everyone to see.

"For the abuse, for the..." he faltered, couldn't look her in the eye. "For the lies, for the experiments..."

"And what about what you did to me?"

"I'm sorry for locking you away." he stared at the floor. "I'm sorry I abandoned you and your brother."

Tears blurred his vision and choked his words. He covered his face and groaned, "I'm sorry I couldn't keep your mother alive!"

The icy shell of hate that Wanda had built around herself suddenly cracked, splintered just enough to let a tiny little sliver of pity slip into her heart. It was small, but it was there, and so she could not truly hate him any longer. Slowly but calmly, she removed Lance's guarding arms and walked carefully towards her father.

_Her father._

The gap between them could never be closed, the wounds could never truly heal. But scars or no scars, she could at least lay to rest the anger, the rage that had been living inside of her for far too long.

In a quiet voice she said, "I forgive you, Father."

He looked up at her with wet, tragic eyes, and before either of them truly were aware of it, they were in each other's arms. Everyone and everything else in the room disappeared, didn't matter anymore. Erik wept, cherishing and marveling at the warmth in his embrace, his eyes closed as he struggled to commit every single detail to memory. Wanda's eyes were open and filled with sadness for him, pity for him, as she felt him shudder with tears.

When the embrace ended, Erik smiled at her tremulously, hopefully. She gave him an answering smile and shook her head.

"I forgive you," she said, low and fierce. "But if you ever come near Pietro again, I will kill you."

She didn't wait to see his expression change from joy to despair. She turned away from him and walked into the med lab to watch Dr. McCoy filling a syringe with the tranquilizer that would bring Pietro back to her.

- - -

Pietro stared at the paper in front of him.

He had watched in amazement as his own hands wrote the name: _Wanda._

"Who's Wanda?" he asked himself again.

He became distracted by the way his fingers tip-tap-danced on the tabletop, and he laughed hysterically as they performed a demented can-can, his voice providing a shrill musical accompaniment, his toes tapping enthusiastically in rhythm. When the dance was over, however, his attention was drawn again to the piece of paper with the name printed carefully on it.

She must be someone important, he decided, for him to suddenly write her name down out of the blue.

Blue, like her eyes.

He squinted at the paper in alarm, because for one second he really could have sworn he saw another pair of eyes there, dark blue ones, and a face, too, a girl's face. Stormy eyes, dark like the ocean.

The eyes said: _come what may._

"Shut up!" Pietro snapped at the paper, because it was starting to scare him.

No, the paper wasn't scaring him. It was the sudden notion that he was losing his memory. Everything felt fine, though! How could he remember anyone named Wanda? He had always been alone. He was a strange and wonderful creature, far and above anyone else, too fast to be caught, too fast to be seen. It had always been so and it always would be, wouldn't it?

_That's not true! _A tiny voice far, far away was screaming to him. _You've got to remember! Focus, Pietro! _

"I'm trying!" he panted, clutching his head. "I'm trying to remember!"

There she was, and there were others with her— dark hair, angry eyes, the earth shaking under his feet. Someone small and pale and always worried, someone as big as a mountain and as soft-hearted as a kitten. Fire crackled somewhere, the smell of smoke, a poem about cats and a pair of green eyes that said: _Russian roulette. _

"Who are you?" Pietro spun around, chasing the ghosts that evaporated before his eyes. "Leave me alone!"

_Focus, Pietro! Focus on Wanda!_

"Wanda, Wanda, Wanda," he repeated, pounding his forehead against the wall, his eyes hot and his teeth clenched. "Wanda, Wanda, Wanda..."

And her voice answered: _I'm here for you, Pietro. _

He flew away from the wall, his hands pressed feverishly against his chest to keep his heart from exploding out of it.

"Wanda!" he screamed, panicking. "Help me! I almost forgot— I'm starting to forget! Wanda, don't leave me!"

Scrambling out of the kitchen, he tore into the living room and found it empty. She wasn't there. Wild, frantic, he raced around the mansion, searching for someone, anyone, Wanda Lance Todd Freddy Johnny anybody help!

"I'm going crazy!" he shrieked. "I think I'm dying! I don't want to die! I don't want to die! I'm not ready, I'm not ready to die yet!"

Tumbling down the stairs to the med lab, he almost wept with relief when he saw all of them there, waiting for him, frozen like statues but so welcome to his eyes that he wanted to hug and kiss all of them at the same time. He walked from person to person, saying their names, savoring their faces, remembering. The only one he did not approach was Magneto— he was too afraid. But he found Wanda standing next to the doctor, and with a sob of exhaustion he threw his arms around her.

She smelled like he remembered. She was here, she was real, and she was his reason to focus. Just focus on Wanda. Keep it together, just a little while longer.

When he finally opened his eyes and looked into hers, he saw that stormy blue was pointed at the table. He followed her gaze down and saw a note written by the doctor. It said:

_Pietro—_

_This syringe contains a powerful tranquilizer that we believe will slow you down into real time. We may have found a cure for you. You must administer the tranquilizer yourself. Insert the needle into your upper arm at a forty-five degree angle and_

Pietro couldn't read any further. His eyes were riveted on the syringe. The needle gleamed wickedly, shimmering with the nightmares of his childhood. Wild accusing eyes glared at Wanda, then at Magneto looming nearby. Another needle, is that it? After years of those terrible experiments, all that pain, injection after injection until his arm felt like it was going to fall off, and now they actually expected him to stab himself with one of those things?

The madness he thought he had escaped suddenly pounced and grabbed on tight, and the very idea of complying with such a request seemed not only ridiculous, but a real threat. He couldn't believe that Wanda would do such a thing to him, would dare to ask him to lay down his freedom for her. Here he was, fast as the wind, king of the world, and she expected him to give it all up.

And Magneto! He couldn't even call him father, lurking over there with his eyes on the syringe, just daring him to stick it in his arm. That's what he wants, isn't it? That's all he wants! He wants to start the experiments again until you're either better or dead!

"I won't..." he snarled.

Snatching the note up, he tore it to pieces and threw it on the floor, grinding it down with his heel defiantly.

"You can't make me."

- - -


	36. The Road to Xibalba

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Much love from New York. I hope it snows soon. I want to write the last chapter when it's snowing.

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Xibalba --- the Mayan underworld, "The Place of Phantoms," can only be reached by passing a series of impossible tests on the Road to Xibalba, a dark and difficult path through the stars.

- - -

They waited.

What else could they do? Standing around in the Frankenstein med lab, cold as ice, silent as the grave. All eyes riveted on that shiny little syringe and that precise little note, waiting for something, anything to change. Would Pietro materialize suddenly before them? Would he be alive, or would the heavy tranquilizer stop his heart? The defibrillator was waiting too, but with much more patience than any of them.

Lance and Wanda were in each other's arms, counting heartbeats, counting seconds, counting how many times Dr. McCoy went over and reread the note to make sure it was as straightforward and simple as possible. Todd was sitting in a distant corner, knees drawn to his chest with arms locked around them, his head buried safely in the fortress he had created; Fort Tolensky, impenetrable by sadness or fear, or so its maker hoped and prayed. Logan, Xavier, and Erik made a grim trio across from the table that held the syringe. Xavier was sending out a slow, steady pulse of calm that managed to reach everyone in the room, if not as complete soothing, at least as a reassuring nudge. In another corner sat Freddy, with Johnny asleep or unconscious in his arms, but breathing still in spite of everything.

They waited.

Suddenly, something changed. Everyone felt it happen, even if they didn't see it. Quick, everyone, find the difference between the two pictures! It's a small difference, it could be anything from the number of stripes on the back of the chair to the hands on the clock being in a different position. What could it be?

Then Lance said, "Look!"

He pointed to the floor, where the precise little note was all shredded up and lying quietly in several pieces.

"What does that mean?" yelped Todd, who had stupidly set foot outside of his fort only to be viciously assaulted by the enemy.

"I'm not sure," said Hank cautiously.

And Erik announced, "He's not going to take it."

Everyone was very quiet. It would be just like Pietro, wouldn't it? Selfish bastard that he was. Lance clutched Wanda so tight she thought she might explode. She was shaking her head and saying the word "no" like a sacred chant. It got louder and louder, steadily climbing the tone scale towards hysteria. Distraught by her distress, Freddy carefully placed Johnny on the floor, then hurried over and embraced both Lance and Wanda in his huge arms.

"Guys," he choked. "What's happening?"

He received no answer.

- - -

Pietro watched them with steely, unsympathetic eyes. It wasn't going to work. Nothing could make him change his mind once he had made a decision. This was final. This was permanent. Damn the torpedoes, and damn them all for caring so much.

An electric shock ran down his spine and he cried out, doubling over in pain as some invisible assailant stabbed him in the stomach.

"It's a trick!" he panted. "You can't make me change my mind!"

- - -

"If Pietro doesn't take that shot," Logan muttered. "What's Plan B?"

"There is no Plan B!" Hank raked a hand over his head in frustration. "We have no other way of even finding him, let alone catching him!"

"He's afraid." Erik said softly, brokenly. "Of the needle. It's my fault, oh god, it's all my fault."

"What are we gonna do?" Todd whimpered, muffled by the fortress he had futilely attempted to crawl back inside of. "What are we gonna do?"

"Wait, just wait," Lance was trying to calm down Wanda, Freddy, Todd, and himself. "He'll reconsider. He's not stupid, he knows what's at stake."

There were several horrible moments when no one could think of anything to say. Then, grim and specter-like, Johnny rose to his feet with a primal scream.

"_Pietro, you bastard!"_

Everyone turned to him, startled, as he lurched towards the remains of the note, sweat falling from his face like tears, a faint dark spot just now visible on his forehead; a new lesion. Hands grasped clawlike at the bits of paper, his voice hoarse and desperate, his agony raw and uncontrollable.

"You stupid bastard!" he shrieked. "I hate you I hate you I hate you! You think you're the only person who cares about you! What about Wanda? What about me? You son of a bitch, what about me? You said— you said— you said we'd be buddies, we'd be pals! You were keeping me alive, now look at me! I have no strength left, and it's all your fault! I hate you! I'm dying because you can't pull your head out of your selfish ass and see how much we need you! I hate you I hate I hate—"

They all winced at the sickening crack that Johnny's head made when it slammed into the floor. It was a seizure that threw him backwards like a kick to the face, then jumped up and down on his back out of spite. He cried out in pain, arching from side to side, his limbs thrashing and his lungs gasping for air.

"Johnny!" Wanda screamed, lunging forwards.

She rushed towards him to kneel at his side and hold him still, but before she could even make it two steps, the thunderous voice that haunted her nightmares froze her in her tracks.

"Wanda!" Erik roared. "Don't touch him!"

No one could move, they just watched in mesmerized horror as the blood appeared, trickling out of Johnny's nose and mouth, splattering and smearing on the floor as his head snapped around helplessly. The doctor in Hank spurred him into motion, but before he could reach the victim, another harsh order curtailed his action.

"No one touch him!" boomed Erik. "No one go near him!"

"For god's sake, why not?" cried Hank, horrified.

"It's the blood." said Logan coolly. "What's in the blood, Magnet, that's got you so scared?"

"The Legacy Virus." Erik was calm, detached. "It is designed to kill mutants and it spreads through the blood. I would advise no one to touch him unless they wish to share his illness."

"He's dying!" Wanda was furious. "You can't just stand there and watch him suffer!"

"I can." Erik said levelly. "I did everything I could for him."

"That's not good enough." Wanda snapped.

Determined, she marched another two steps closer to the aid of the fallen Johnny. But in several rapid strides, Erik had raced over and caught her in his arms, physically preventing her from action.

"You monster!" she yelled, struggling to free herself. "You're a monster! Let me go! Someone, help him, please!"

- - -

Lying on the floor and trying not to explode, Pietro lifted his head to glare spitefully at those he had thought he could trust. He wanted to spit poison at them, spit fire, but he didn't. He just stared.

Johnny was also lying on the floor. And he didn't look too good.

All of Pietro's limbs weighed a fucking ton. He barely managed to drag himself to his feet, and then he had to grab the edge of the table to keep from falling over again. Every step took a lifetime, his foot dragging slowly, slowly across the cold hard floor. He was mesmerized by the red red blood coming from Johnny's mouth and nose. It drew him closer like a snake charmer, but he reached the edge of the table and could go no further.

Oh, Wanda. Look at you standing there, your face twisted in despair, your eyes crying out for aid. Look at you crying out for justice. You reach for Johnny, but you're reaching past him. It's not him you want. You're reaching out for mercy, for whatever higher power that has done this to us not to take us away from you. You're trying to hold onto Johnny because you can't bear to lose another one.

And Pietro realized: she thinks she's already lost me.

- - -

The seizure stopped at the same time as Johnny's heart. Everyone got absolutely quiet, waiting for him to draw another gasping breath, but he didn't. He just went completely still, ending as abruptly as the road when it comes to the edge of a cliff. It sounded just like that, too; the engine of the car was his labored breathing, and when the car plunged off the edge of the chasm, all the roaring noise was suddenly cut off.

"_No!_" Wanda screamed, and she tried digging her fingernails into Erik's arm, but nothing could make him let go.

- - -

This wasn't right.

"_I'm still here!" _Pietro screamed.

No one paid any attention.

This was so wrong. He wasn't ready to leave. He wanted to be with them. Look at them, they couldn't cope without him! Wanda was a mess, Lance was caving in on himself, Todd was freaking out, Freddy was slipping into apathy, and of course the minute he turned his back Johnny completely let himself go, that bastard. They needed him!

Pietro said, bewildered, "They need me."

And look at Wanda, in Magneto's arms. Magneto, trying to take care of Johnny and screwing it up royally. Magneto, trying to take Pietro's place in the family he had worked so hard and long to build.

There was no way he would let him have that satisfaction.

Pietro turned his sweat-drenched body around and started hauling himself towards the needle.

"I'm not a coward."

- - -

"He's not breathing!" Lance was panicking. "What do we do?"

Logan stood silent and still, his eyes burning a thousand accusations at Magneto, who stared back with the gaze of a condemned prisoner. Logan looked down at the body at his feet. So that was the truth about the time-bomb. A manufactured disease after all. Poor bastard probably had his veins pumped full of poison in some mutant testing facility, anonymous scientists having their way with him, no ownership even of his own body. Logan knew the feeling and he knew he had to act.

Shit. Healing factors protect against disease, right? Now they do.

Kneeling next to the glassy-eyed Johnny, Logan knotted his hands and began CPR.

"Wolverine!" Magneto growled. "I hope you realize the consequences of your actions."

And glancing up from his work, Logan said what everyone had been wanting to say to Erik from the moment he had dared to ask forgiveness:

"Fuck you."

- - -

"Oh god oh god oh god oh god..."

Pietro's hands were shaking so badly he could hardly hold the needle straight. He was terrified. Hot tears were slipping out of his eyes and blurring his vision. He felt like he was going to piss his pants with fear. Everything was slanted and angry, and he could hear his father's voice over and over: "It's for your own good. It's for your own good. Trust me. Trust me."

He cast a wild, despairing glance at Wanda, but she couldn't help him. He was on his own. Somehow, somehow he had to find the courage to do this alone.

Think of Wanda. Think of Johnny and Lance and Todd and all the people who need you and want you to come home!

Squeezing his eyes shut so tight it hurt, he hissed through bared teeth, "Please, God!"

And he brought the needle down into his arm.

It stabbed like a spear, and he gasped in agony as it impaled his skinny limb. Before he could think, his hand was independently depressing the plunger and sending the tranquilizer scalding into his bloodstream.

It raced through his system from his head to his toes; the needle went clattering from his paralyzed hand, his whole world spinning, his tongue swelling up and hanging out of his mouth like a dog. Everything felt tighter, tighter, tighter; a big invisible fist was closing over his heart and squeezing it like an orange, orange juice, Pietro juice, sour and poisonous.

It hurt so much! He tried to take one lurching step towards Wanda, but his legs were frozen solid like steel girders, brittle, unmoveable.

_I think... my heart... is..._

And then it stopped.

- - -

"Hey, Hank," Logan grunted with the repeated effort of the compressions. "What do you say we put that defibrillator to good use?"

Hank nodded, gave Erik a scathing look, then hurried to prepare the machine. Everyone was so focused on Johnny's dying that they almost missed it. Fortunately, the ear-piercing scream caught their attention, and they all whipped around to see...

Pietro! Appearing like a sonic boom, ghost-pale, haggard, and screaming like a banshee. His specter hands were clawing at his chest, tearing at the sweat-soaked material of his t-shirt, his eyes rolled upwards in the sockets like a final glance up to heaven, a dying plea for mercy.

No one even had time to move before he collapsed, hitting the ground hard, the needle skittering across the floor as it fell from his hand.

He was not breathing, and his open eyes were vacant, lifeless, silent, gazing straight up through the ceiling and the mansion and the sky and on into the stars.

There was a roar of voices. People were crying Pietro's name, crying out in fear, crying out in joy. Hank raced over to him, placed two blue fingers against the strained white neck, announced, "No pulse!"

Logan looked up from his work. The defib machine was right next to him. He reached out for the paddle, but with the whir of magnetism, the machine darted away from him and rolled over to Pietro. Erik's extended hand guided it. He had made his decision. Logan returned to compressions.

Wanda bit Erik's hand so hard that she broke the skin. As he held his bleeding wound close, she broke loose and raced to her brother, scooping his head into her lap and screaming his name over and over, wake up, wake up, wake up!

The whine of the charging defibrillator— Lance had to tear Wanda away so she wouldn't get shocked herself— Pietro's back arched under the electrical current— Logan pounded on Johnny's chest and snarled, "You are _not _giving up now!"— Todd wept and Freddy stared— "Clear!" and Pietro thrashed again but didn't wake up—

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	37. Tabula Rasa

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: There will be an epilogue after this chapter, but otherwise, we're almost there. Merry Christmas. Love.

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The sun was just coming up on a cold winter morning. The icy ground shimmered and sparkled in the faint light, a thousand little diamonds scattered through the grass and catching the dawn. Everything was quiet and church-like, a sacred moment, a prayer being whispered for the new day to bring better times than the last.

When the gentle pink light slanted through the window, Pietro opened his eyes and drew his first deep breath of rebirth. It took an eon to fill his heavy lungs, and another eternity to release it in a long, exhausted wheeze. His vision was blurry, his body numb, but even as he became aware of this he became aware of the sensation returning, his vision sharpening. He took another serving of air, savoring it like a feast. He felt like a baby who had just been born, not quite connected to his body yet, still trying to understand the world he had suddenly opened his eyes to behold. Everything felt slow and sedated, and as he looked groggily down at his arm, he concluded that it must be because he was being pumped full of tranquilizers. It didn't matter, he didn't care, because now— another glorious breath.

_I'm alive at last. _

As his clarity crept back in increments, he realized that the warmth he felt all over was not from quilts or blankets. It was Wanda, curled up in bed next to him, one arm draped protectively across his chest, her face detailed with the stripes of dried tears. His left arm was pinned under her, so he reached carefully towards her with his right, wincing at the gentle tug of the IVs that moved with him. Tenderly, adoringly, he brushed his fingers through her raven hair, a sob of joy catching in his throat as reality became clear.

She awoke to the delicate caress tracing down her face, and looking up suddenly, she found herself lost in the eyes she had believed she would never see again.

Time, for once discreet, slipped away politely, allowing an eternity to drift between the two. Ice blue met storm blue, no words, no need for them. Eyes are the windows to the soul, but between these two, they became doors flung open wide and inviting the other to enter. Their kindred spirits met on the air and entwined, sinking back into their owners with a portion of the other still held close and secure. Two hearts pulsed and glowed, their strength returning, their life flooding back into them from the one who had been holding it for them.

How could either of them speak? What could they say, where to begin? So they said nothing at all, just spoke through their eyes, thoughts and passions too deep to be described. And finally, they both whispered at the same time,

"_I know."_

- - -

Lance entered the room and almost broke down, because there was Pietro, awake and breathing and here and real and alive. He couldn't think of how to greet him, how to tell him how much it meant to have him back, how much he had missed him, how much he wanted to beg him to never ever leave again.

He managed to croak stupidly, "Hey!"

And Pietro looked at him with his sharp blue eyes and his thin pale face and his messy white hair, and he smiled. The angular misery that had twisted his expression for too long melted into a soft, genuine, heartfelt smile.

"Hey," he said.

"Dude, you look like shit."

And Lance almost laughed as he said it, because it was so true. There were bags under his eyes, dark and bruised against his ghostly pale skin, marked at the forehead with a red stripe from where he had slammed his head into a wall. He was haggard, scrawny, skeletal; he had lost a lot of weight, the Top Gear sucking its energy directly from him. He seemed fragile, weak, and helpless. But his eyes were still the same. His eyes were still proud and fierce. Inside that devastated shell, Pietro was still hanging on.

"I feel like shit," Pietro muttered, his voice slurring a bit. "Feel heavy. Underwater."

He shifted his weight and Wanda sat up, giving him room to try and prop himself up on the pillows. He gasped sharply, one hand clutching at his chest, his expression startled, frightened.

"It's okay, man," Lance soothed, pulling up a chair. "That part's normal. It's from the defib. They start pounding your chest with electricity, it's something you're gonna feel the next day."

Pietro gave up on trying to achieve a sitting position and just settled back down in his nest of his blankets. He felt a bit sleepy, a bit dazed. Tranquilizers. He smacked his mouth open and closed. Dry.

"I'm kind of thirsty," he observed.

There was a glass of water already waiting for him on the nightstand, and with Wanda's help he managed to drink half of it. Then he relaxed back into her arms and she just held him, cradled him there, stroking his hair in a gentle rhythm. He almost fell asleep, but he forced his eyes open and kept himself awake.

"What happened?"

"It's a long story," Lance said. "But it involves blood. It was like, yours was tainted, so they took it out and replaced it with clean stuff."

"Clean stuff? Like, clean blood? From where?"

Lance smiled and said, "Guess."

Pietro craned his head back to look up at Wanda. She kissed his forehead and said, "You didn't I was going to let you get away that easily, did you?"

He reached up and touched her face, reading it like Braille with his phantom fingertips, feeling the warmth of love and the depth of devotion, and he said, "Thanks for that, little sister."

"Hey," she nudged him. "I believe you mean big sister."

She leaned down and pressed her forehead against his, and their eyes closed at the same time. Lance was almost embarrassed to be there, intruding on this intimate communication. But just as he was about to leave, they separated and smiled at each other, that infuriating secret smile that silently affirmed whatever had just passed between them.

"Pietro!" Todd shrieked from the doorway. "You're awake!" And he stuck his head out in the hallway and bawled, "Freddy! He's awake!"

Then Pietro was being suffocated under the desperately-relieved grasp of a Todd-hug.

"Oh, man, oh, man, I'm so glad you're okay!" he gushed, squeezing Pietro so tight that he might break, but unable to relax because he never wanted to let him get away again. "I was so scared, Pietro! I was so scared!"

And Pietro hugged back weakly, sighing, "Me too, Todd."

His eyes closed as the memory of terror crept into his consciousness. He pushed it away. Focus on now. Focus on Todd giving you the biggest hug you've ever gotten in your life. This is your life. You're here to stay.

"Todd!" Lance scolded half-heartedly. "Careful, man, you're gonna rip his IVs out."

"Whoa, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Todd sprang backwards, about to burst with energy. "I'm just, I was just really— I'm just happy!"

And they all looked at each other and realized that's what felt so different. They were happy.

Freddy trundled into the room and ruffled Pietro's hair with one massive hand, a hand that could crush steel girders now being used with a tenderness that wouldn't even break an eggshell.

"Hey, man." said Freddy, and that was all he needed to say.

Pietro felt tears prickling his eyes, but he managed to hold them. Here they were. All of them. And they were happy to see him. They cared that he was all right. They were going to take care of him. It was more than he had ever hoped to wish for, and to have an unspoken prayer answered was overwhelming. He leaned back against Wanda and listened to her heartbeat. And then he noticed something.

"Guys," he said quietly. "Where's Johnny?"

No one answered.

But then Johnny wheezed from the doorway, "That's my cue!"

There he was, slouched in a wheelchair and with an oxygen tube snaked under his nose, still alive somehow. He had no strength left to give, and when he awkwardly tried to maneuver himself into the room, his hands couldn't quite form a sturdy grip on the wheels.

"Is everyone... just gonna stare?" he rasped in annoyance. "Or can the cripple... get a little help?"

Freddy hurried over and pushed the wheelchair over to the bed. An oxygen tank was fixed to the back of it, and Johnny was taking deep drags off it like a junkie. The lesion on his forehead had clarified into an ugly black mark, and his whole face was slick with sweat. But he cracked a grin as wide as the sea, his eyes just as deep, as he grabbed Pietro's hand.

"You're a dick," he said affectionately.

"No, you're a dick," Pietro seized the hand with both of his. "I turn my back on you for two seconds and you completely give up."

"I'm a weak man," Johnny admitted. "Without constant reassurance, I very easily lose track of myself."

"You think you're back on track now?"

"I don't know," That familiar, painful honesty. "I'm trying. I just wanted to... see you. One last..." He shook his head. "I'm gonna try. I swear."

"Good. Because if you give up, I'll kill you."

Johnny's face brightened. The sickness seemed to shrink before his smile, the hope and loyalty that caused him to sit up straighter and breathe a little steadier. This was what he needed: someone to tell him not to die. Left to his own devices, he would just idle away to dust. Under orders to survive, he would cling on to the last.

Pietro closed his eyes and let his other senses work. He could hear Wanda's heartbeat from where his head rested against her chest. He could feel Johnny's warm, warm hand in his. He could smell the cheap cologne that Lance had sprayed on to cover up the fact he hadn't showered since the whole mess started. He could hear Todd giggling and Freddy chuckling over some little joke.

"Pietro?" Lance's voice said. "What's the matter?"

When Pietro opened his eyes again, he smiled. "I was hiding."

Johnny squeezed his hand, while Wanda kissed the top of his head and said, "We found you."

- - -

In the hallway, Logan was guarding the door. Erik was standing nearby, dying to go inside but forbidden entry by Wanda. As much as it pained him to acknowledge it, he knew that her death threat was not mere angry talk. If he ever came near Pietro again, he was quite confident that his daughter would cause him a great deal of harm. Craning his neck, he was able to see in through the little observation window in the door and see his son surrounded by the new family he had created for himself. It broke his heart.

"They don't need you anymore, Magnet," Logan smirked. "Don't know what you're stickin' around for."

"I'm waiting." Erik said distantly. "I have nothing else to do."

He had turned down Charles' sympathetic offer to stay in the Mansion. His friend had been quite insistent on it, but Erik could not bear to accept. He did have a home to return to, he reminded. He neglected to add that the home was empty. He had parted ways with Charles on guarded, guilty terms, burdened by the realization that in the eyes of the X-Men, he no longer had any power. He was just a sad, broken man trying to pick up the pieces of his mistakes— a depressing, undignified end to a legend.

"Get lost, bub," Logan was getting a bit more hostile. "You ain't welcome here no more."

The revelation of Erik's experiments had set Logan permanently against him; the victim has no love in his heart for the attacker. Logan had allied himself with his fellow sufferers, with Pietro and Johnny, and he was the one strong enough to take a stand against the man who stood for everything he hated. He would never forget the way Erik turned his back on his dying Acolyte, when the defibrillator was inches away and Magneto had sent it over to Pietro instead. It was a terrible decision in a situation where there could have been no correct choice, but Logan could not fathom how Erik had made that decision so quickly, so coldly.

For a stretch of time, however, it had seemed like that choice wouldn't have mattered at all. For a few horrible moments, it seemed like they had lost both of them. Pietro wasn't responding to the defib, and the CPR didn't seem to be helping Johnny. It was eerie, the way both of them seemed to staring at the same thing with their glassy eyes. In death, they were almost the same person.

But they weren't dead. Pietro suddenly surged to life, sucking in a long, painful breath, no longer flat-lining but now only unconscious, his eyes sliding closed as his head turned away from the sky he had been gazing at. McCoy had instantly scooped him up into his big arms and carried him quickly over to a bed to begin the transfusion. Everyone followed him in a frantic crowd.

Logan was alone with what he thought was a corpse, but he couldn't bring himself to stop compressions. He'd been so alone for so long, and the idea of his one kindred spirit dying like a dog on the cold floor was unbearably painful. He could hear himself begging the kid to wake up. He felt like an idiot.

But then Johnny was alive, his eyes wide with pain as he gasped for air, his hands clinging to the front of Logan's shirt in a desperate grip. He just hung there, panting, staring up at Logan in wonder, completely amazed that someone had gone through so much effort to save his miserable life.

Logan had said automatically, "Hey, kid, everything's gonna be okay."

And Johnny had answered weakly, "I do appreciate a good lie. Thanks for that, mate."

Now Logan stood in the hall and guarded the kids from the Bogeyman. He glared at Erik, hoping he would take the hint and scram, but the old man stood resolutely, waiting for something that even he probably didn't understand.

There was a creak of wheels, and then the door opened enough for Johnny to slowly maneuver his way into the hall. The door slid gently closed behind him. He was exhausted, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths before beginning his laborious journey down the hallway. Looking up, he saw Erik at the end of hall and gave him a big grin.

"Hey, mate," he wheezed. "Give us a hand?"

He held up his arms, allowing Erik to reach out to the metal in the wheels and draw the chair towards him. Johnny rolled to a stop at Erik's feet and smiled up at him.

"Hey, kid," Logan said gruffly, ruffling Johnny's hair.

"Hey, buddy," Johnny grasped his hand gratefully. "I owe ya one."

"Not a problem, kid," Logan shook his head. "We're even."

Johnny turned his attention to Erik and said, "We heading home, now?"

Erik was stunned. He managed to say, "We?"

The boy nodded and said, "You and me."

Logan growled, "No way. This guy left you to die. You don't owe him nothing."

"He saved my life once," Johnny said calmly, still staring into Erik's eyes. "And he threw it away once. I owe him nothing and he owes me nothing. Now, are we going home?"

Frustrated, Logan tried again. "Kid, he's not worth it."

"I appreciate your advice, buddy," Johnny acknowledged, "But I have to disagree. He's very much worth it."

Erik felt his eyes burning with tears. His legs trembled. He felt too weak, too dizzy to stand. He leaned one hand against the wall to brace himself. Johnny held out his hand for his, but Erik could only stare at it, hesitating.

"I know he made a mistake," Johnny said quietly. "Because he didn't know what else to do. I know he can't let go of something he's already lost. I know he's very confused and sad and he doesn't want to be alone. And I figure..." He looked up at Erik with serious, intense eyes. "One of these days he's gonna realize that I'm the best investment he ever made."

"John..." Erik almost choked on the name. "I don't know what to do."

"I'm sick." Johnny said honestly. "And I need someone to take care of me. I want it to be you."

"Why me?"

"I told you once you were like a father to me. Were you even listening?"

Erik looked away, ashamed. "I wasn't ready to hear it."

"Are you ready now?"

Erik stared at the boy in amazement. In those four words, he had just been offered a second chance he thought he would never get. After falling through the void of self-loathing and despair for so long, the last person he had ever expected was reaching out a hand to pull him back to the light. He looked back towards the hospital room— the door was closed. He looked down at Johnny's hand— it was open and waiting for him to take it. He felt something deep within him trembling with great fear and great joy. It was like he had been living in a dark cave all his life, and he had just emerged to see daylight for the very first time.

He placed his hand in Johnny's and said, "I'm ready."

- - -


	38. Epilogue

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes:

My dear readers,

I have no words for how I feel right now. I never thought I would finish this story, but your encouragement made it possible. I can't believe it's over. I want to thank each and every one of you for every review you ever gave to me. You need to know how important they are. They made me believe in myself. Thank you.

Many of you expressed interest in my future career as a writer. If you'd like to keeps tabs on me, just keep an eye on my author page here. I'll try and update it as things begin to take flight. E-mail me, if you like; I'm very friendly and love to talk. Perhaps our paths will cross some day. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

May the road rise up to meet you, and may the wind always be at your back.

Ta ta.

---P.

- - -

- - -

- - -

- - -

- - -

On New Year's Day, Pietro sat on the front steps of the Brotherhood house and waited for the sun rise.

Everyone else was still asleep, after partying till midnight. Partying for the rest of them, anyway— to everyone's surprise, his own included, Pietro had mellowed out considerably. Perhaps it was the fresh, clean blood that erased his former high-strung self. Perhaps it was the realization that living life too quickly was costing him too dearly. Either way, he was now remarkably easygoing. As Todd had observed: "Wow, Pietro, you're totally chill."

He absently fiddled with the party hat in his hands. His mind was replaying the midnight kiss between Wanda and Lance. He granted his approval, even though it felt like a tiny part of him had been lost. A tiny part of their bond had disappeared, just a little bit, to make room for her new bond with Lance. It was all right. What will be, will be.

The whine of a motor reached his ears, and he smiled.

"Motorized!" Johnny crowed proudly as he drove his new wheelchair up the path towards the porch.

"Can you do wheelies yet?" Pietro asked.

"Give me time, brother. Give me time."

Johnny drew to a halt at the base of the steps so that he and Pietro were eye to eye, knee to knee. He didn't need the oxygen tank anymore and the lesions had stopped spreading. In his descent into illness, he had reached a flat plateau to take a rest.

"Hey, Rumpelteazer." Pietro held out his hand.

"Hey, Mungojerrie." Johnny clasped it. "How is everybody?"

"Everybody's great." he rolled his eyes. "Wanda and Lance are still tentatively circling each other. It's cute."

"Ah, young love." Johnny snorted. "That makes me sound really old."

"Geezer."

"Fart."

"Hey, uh," Pietro steered the conversation back towards serious. "How's my dad?"

"He's all right." Johnny shrugged, smiling fondly. "You know. We get by. He's crazy."

"You taking good care of him?"

"Like he was my own flesh and blood."

"Yeah." Pietro fidgeted. "I feel like I should... I don't know. Go see him or something."

"All in good time. It's a new year, anything can happen."

They became quiet, just savoring each other's company. Pietro wondered how much time he had left with Johnny. He hated thinking about it. Johnny gave a long exhale and watched his breath curl visibly on the air, like dragon smoke. Pietro mimicked him, and they silently blew fog at each other, creating little clouds around them so that it was almost like being up in the sky.

"Can I ask you something?" Johnny was suddenly serious.

"Yes," Pietro said quietly.

Leaning forward in the wheelchair, trembling, Johnny bent his head towards Pietro's, indicating for him to do the same. When Pietro leaned forward, Johnny put a hand on the back of his neck and pulled him so close that his burning lips were just a fraction of an inch away from the pale ear, so close that Pietro could feel his hot breath going down into his ear and straight to his brain as Johnny whispered to him in an urgent voice.

"Did you see it, too?"

"See what?" Pietro murmured into Johnny's ear with the same urgency.

"The stars."

Pietro closed his eyes, his whole body going still. He felt weightless.

"When I hit the floor," Johnny continued reverently. "Everything went dark. Then... I saw the stars. It was so beautiful, I— I was just drifting in space. The pain was gone. I could breathe all the way again. I felt like I had just passed through the burning ozone, and now I could move on to a better place than the one I had left behind."

"How do you know I saw it?" Pietro wondered.

"Because I wasn't alone." Johnny pressed the side of his head against Pietro's. "I wasn't alone. Someone was with me. Was it you?"

Pietro rested his hand against the back of Johnny's neck and said, "I think so."

"I knew it." Johnny laughed under his breath. "Even though I couldn't see you, I recognized you. Did you feel the same way?"

"Yes," Pietro remembered. "I felt like... like my whole life, I'd been tied to a stone, but suddenly I was untied and I could use the wings that I'd never known I had."

"And we were going to keep flying, out into the stars, towards..." Johnny's voice grew even softer. "I don't know where we were going."

"Me neither, just that I wanted to go there."

"Why didn't we?"

Johnny pulled back so that he could look into Pietro's eyes. They stared at each other.

"Why didn't we?" Pietro echoed.

The grey sky overhead gave no answer. In the distance, a bird called, a tiny sound almost swallowed up by the heavy, cold air.

"We turned around." Johnny said hoarsely. "We went back through the ozone."

"I guess..." Pietro said faintly. "I guess I wasn't ready to leave yet."

"Me neither. Even though I finally felt..."

"...free."

The word sounded like a bell on the still air.

Johnny smiled painfully and said, "The chains we bear."

Pietro mirrored the smile and said, "We made the right choice." Then he added in a small, frightened voice, "I think."

He wasn't really sure. He remembered the weightlessness, not just of his body but of his soul, as all his earthly cares and worries faded away behind him. No more pain, no more fear. He was flying towards Xibalba, Eden, Valhalla, Infinity— and he turned around. After a lifetime of sorrows, he had finally been released. He'd thrown off the chains and taken flight towards better things. But still... For some reason or another, he had returned, folded his wings, and shackled himself once more. He stared into the sickly pale sky and wondered if he would ever understand himself.

Then it happened. What he'd been waiting for. The sun broke over the horizon and the sky splintered into color and light, the dirty grey clouds suddenly splashed with orange and red and pink. To the east, a ball of fire rising slowly, magnificently, the first seductive curve just emerging into view, beginning that powerful and unstoppable ascent towards the heavens. But even then, upon reaching the zenith, the sun would once again descend into darkness, swallowed up by the earth. In that tomb, the sun knows that it's only a matter of time before it rises again and tastes the heights of the sky. Glory, death, and then... rebirth. The burning light of the sunrise scalded Pietro's night-adjusted eyes, and he shielded them against the heat of this new reality. After a few painful seconds, his vision began to adjust. He lowered his hand and gazed up into the fiery promise of dawn.

"Hey, Pietro," Johnny said quietly. "Are you okay?"

And Pietro said, "I think so."

-

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the end.


End file.
